From Wilderness to Cities White
by Larner
Summary: A collection of stories featuring the Fellowship and the world they inhabited.
1. Shared Intelligence

_For Linda Hoyland and Dawn Felagund for their birthdays. And thanks so to RiverOtter for the beta._

Shared Intelligence

He cracked the door to Faramir's office and peered within. Here his newly accepted Steward and Frodo Baggins both worked, Frodo doing research on how historically those crippled or slain in the defense of the realm had been treated while Faramir looked into the records of his father's purchases of grain and other staples intended to support the city of Minas Tirith during any siege by Mordor. There was, after all, a need for foodstuffs within the city, considering the desolation of the fields and farms that had supported the White City's needs, there upon what had become the battlefield of the Pelennor. As for Frodo's research—well, it would be far easier to convince the Council of the need to offer aid to those disabled in the final battles with Mordor and the families of the slain if precedents could be found, the more the better.

Usually when he looked within the room, Aragorn saw two dark heads each bowed closely over bound volumes of statutes or stacks of documents, one high up with dark hair long and straight, leaning over the surface of the Steward's massive desk; the other with curly dark locks with glints of silver, particularly near the temples, obscuring in part the delicate leaf-like tips of the ears, intent on whatever lay upon the top of the low table he'd been given to work upon. Today, however, Faramir held a document upright and between himself and his fellow, whose head rose but slightly above the height of the desk. Frodo was leaning forward, indicating with an ink-stained, outstretched finger some point he felt was important; Faramir's face was shining with pleasure at the shared knowledge. It was plain that whatever Frodo was indicating gave the Man a good deal of satisfaction as well.

"They will come to me soon to share this with me," the King murmured to himself. "Let them know this moment of fellowship uninterrupted."

And with a feeling of anticipation, he retreated to his own office, and thought how he would mimic surprise when the two of them surged together into his presence to share whatever it was they had found.


	2. The Reluctant Spring

_Written for the A_L_E_C "Change of Season" challenge. For the birthdays of Aurenollaurelote, Lady Branwyn, and Tiggersk8. Beta by RiverOtter._

**The Reluctant Spring**

Carefully looking both ways to see that none of Lotho's Big Men were about, Robin Smallburrow turned off the Road and slipped across the south pasture toward the low house lying at the center of his family's farm, staying close to the hedge that bounded the lane. Not, he knew, that anyone would easily see him, as lowering as the brown clouds were. The days were dull and sullen and the nights miserably dark, and had been for the past month or so. It might be nearing midday, but it might as well be twilight.

Reaching the door, he gave the agreed upon signal to let his old mum know that it was him—two quick raps and three slow ones, followed by a scratch of a horny fingernail across the wood. He heard the chair his mum kept under the battered knob scrape as she pulled it away, and the door slowly opened. It was dark inside the place, and he could see his mother only as a slightly darker shadow against the already dark entryway. "That you, lad?" she whispered. "Thought as you'd be here afore dawn."

He slipped past her and closed the door behind her, then pushed the chair back under the knob once more, making certain it was firmly wedged. "Couldn't make it—got called to Bag End along with my mates."

"Bag End? And what new mischief does Pimple plan for us now?" she demanded, drawing him down the passage to the kitchen. A single candle sat on a saucer on the table—for some reason the last time the Gatherers and Sharers had been through they'd taken all the lamps and lamp oil, as well as the three brass candlesticks his family had owned.

He shook his head as he dropped his pack onto a chair, then doffed the now hated feathered cap he had to wear to identify himself as a Shiriff and tossed it onto the table. "He's got a bunch of new lads—says as we need more Shiriffs, so's we can make sure as folks don't break the new Rules. We're to be put into troops-"

"Troops?" Her voice rose in outrage. "Since when does the Shire need troops of Shiriffs? Just how many do we need to find a strayed lamb or walk a drunk Hobbit home from the inn?"

"What inn?" he asked bitterly. "Ain't no inns open nowhere about here in the Westfarthing no more. Mr. Lotho, him don't hold with inns, or so he says."

She gave a sniff. "I member well enough when his old dad was a regular at the Ivy Bush when I worked there, back afore your dad'n me was married. And Pimple himself certainly spent a good deal of time there, up till a year or so ago. Was drinkin' there the day his daddy was buried, if'n I member rightly. Showed up to the funeral drunk, if'n Sam Gamgee's to be believed."

Sam had accompanied Frodo Baggins to Otho Sackville-Baggins's funeral, and had helped fill in the grave while Mr. Baggins, as the Baggins family head and almost the only mourner besides that awful Mistress Lobelia, had ended up directing matters in the absence of Lotho. It had been rather a scandal, in spite of the fact that Lotho was known to spend hardly any time at all at home with his mother or taking care of family business. Robin remembered Sam sitting here at their table, telling of it that night.

"They got you goin' around counting logs in woodpiles now?" she asked.

"Not yet, but I expect as it's comin'. We're to make certain as there's but one bucket for each well, and no more than one boiler for laundry for each house. And we're to inspect washin' lines and make certain there's not extra sheets bein' washed, since no one's to be visitin' from other parts of the Shire no more."

His mother was shocked. "What? And what about folks like the Delvers? You know how it is with old Blotho, all stuck in bed since that brainstorm a year ago. They have to change his beddin' at least once a day. It's not like he can help it, after all!" She shook her head in dismay. "And with Will Whitfoot gone, all locked up in those old storage tunnels Michel Delving way, there's not a soul as can put a stop to it all! I'll tell you what—that Frodo Baggins comes back and I'll have a word to put in his ear! Sellin' Bag End to those uppity Sackville-Bagginses and lettin' Pimple's head swell up like that! Much less draggin' that Sam off into the wild the way he did!" She turned angrily toward their larder and began to pull out enough to fix him some elevenses, and he started unpacking what he'd brought in the pack. It wasn't a great deal, but it was about enough to help offset what she'd not been able to get for herself due to the Gatherers and Sharers depleting the stores of the merchants she used to buy from in the village. 'Twasn't the best of quality, perhaps, but it _was_ filling, at least. As he worked, he pondered what he needed to tell her. At last he felt he'd waited long enough.

"Mum," he began slowly, "I don't know as I'll be able to come by as often as I do now, come next month."

She stopped in the process of slicing the half loaf of bread she'd brought from the larder, gripping the bread knife more tightly so as to whiten her knuckles. "Why not?"

He took a deep breath before explaining, "Like I said, Pimple's organizing us into troops, and I'm to be part of the troop workin' out of Frogmorton."

She stared at him, disbelieving. "Frogmorton? But why? Why, that's a day's walk away from here!"

"I know. But he wants Shiriffs in force along the Road."

She set down the knife rather deliberately on the worktable, and just looked at him, her arms akimbo, her balled fists against her ample hips. She was shaking her head. "This ain't right—not right at all! You know what, son—it's time you gave over bein' a Shiriff, when you are sent a day's journey from your home, and when you're made to spy on decent folk who never did wrong to anyone."

"I can't quit."

"But why not?"

"Member Chico Bottomly, there from Overhill?"

"The one who got away with my prize turnips back when you was teens?"

"Yes. You know as he went for a Shiriff same time as me."

"Yes, I know."

"Well, last week he went up to Bag End to tell Pimple as he was quitting being a Shiriff as it just wasn't right what we was expected to do, and we've not seen him since."

Her face went white. "They drug him off to the Lockholes, you think?" she whispered.

"We don't know for certain, but I expect as that's what happened."

"If'n they didn't kill him," she murmured, looking down at the bread and knife lying before her on the worktable.

"Lotho wouldn't let them kill nobody—or at least I don't think as he would." But even Robin heard the uncertainty in his own voice.

"Who's to say as what Pimple would do?" she muttered, picking up her knife and savagely finishing her slicing. "Always was a lout, and he's just gettin' worse the older he gets."

He nodded.

Elevenses were rather sparse, but at least he wouldn't faint with hunger as he returned to his rounds. He hitched his now lighter pack up on his shoulders, gave a careful look about to make certain no one was watching his mum's house, and headed back toward the Road. The day was no lighter—in fact it seemed even more bitterly dark than it had been, and there was a distinct feeling of anger and malice in the air. "You'd never figger as today's the twenty-fifth of March already," he muttered as he reached the Road and looked carefully each way to make certain no one else was in sight. "Will spring never come?"

Usually by now the crocuses would be in full bloom and the daffodils would just be beginning to show their golden crowns. But there were no spiked leaves from bulbs to be seen, and no blossoms of any kind. The willow shrubs hadn't yet produced their catkins, nor had the aspens begun to bud. Trees were still bare, and even the plants of the hedges were still sporting leaves spotted with last fall's signs rather than showing any indications they were still wick. There'd not even been any snowdrops, and those were always the first plants to waken with the brightening of the year.

He felt clammy, in spite of the closeness of the atmosphere, and he drew his cloak tighter about himself. He felt reluctant to leave the concealment of the hedge, as if were he to step out upon the Road he'd make himself conspicuous to the eye of some fell enemy. He wiped his forehead with his jacket's sleeve while peering left and right. Somewhere, he suddenly realized, something was decidedly _wrong_! What it was he could not say and would not guess; but there was a decided feeling of impending doom hovering over him, and he knew somehow it was best he remain still and draw no attention to himself!

The day suddenly went completely still. There'd been no smaller birds to be seen throughout the Shire for all the weeks of the darkness that had come from the south and east, although there were plenty of crows of scruffy appearance to be found. Even they, however, had seemed either unnaturally subdued for their kind, or would be particularly raucous in their calls, as if in defiance of the unnatural silence to be found throughout the Shire. Now, however, even they were quiet! The wind had died, and all seemed to wait for some great, killing stroke to fall upon the land! Robin Smallburrow felt as if he were stifling, and clawed at the top button to his shirt!

And then, when he felt he must go mad from the tension of the moment, at last he felt some great balance shift! A wind sprang up, bending the hedge eastward, and suddenly he could breathe again, even if it was labored in the face of the gale! He turned west and watched as the great pall of brown murk began to tear apart, as the blue of the sky at last could be seen and as light began tearing away at the remnants of the reek! The crows rose from where they'd huddled in the tallest of the trees, crying aloud to herald the end of the darkness, seeming just as glad as Robin himself to see the end of the shadow that had hung for so long over the whole world, or so it had seemed to the Hobbit!

Far to the west clouds were beginning to gather, but they were natural clouds, clouds from proper weather rather than darkness, and he knew that soon rain would begin to fall, washing away the brown ash that he could see darkened the leaves and stifled the very earth.

"Yes!" he said in a soft exclamation as he saw a great flock of small birds at last soaring over the Westfarthing, each chirping loudly.

_Honk, honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk!_ From the south came a great V of geese, followed by a second flank, all crying aloud the gladsome news—somehow, in some strange way, the land itself was awakening, and all hurried to see to it that spring caught up with the calendar. The true clouds of the west swept eastward, dropping their burden of moisture upon the land, and Robin stood there in awe, watching them roil overhead in rolls of white, purple, indigo, silver and darkest grey, lit here and there with rosy pink and even crimson. A silver curtain of rain arced toward him, and he let it come, rejoiced to feel the honest touch of it upon his face, saw it scouring away the darkness.

A flock of ducks struggled to keep together as they flew by toward Bywater and the Pool there. A hawk suddenly appeared, tilting first this way and then that as the wind buffeted its wings, glad apparently merely to be aloft no matter how heavy the winds might be!

Then the clouds were past, chasing the brown gloom further eastward and south, and sunlight followed the rain, showing sparkling jewels here and there across the land as it glinted from drops that clung to the bare stems and stubborn, brittle leaves of the hedge by which Robin stood and as they stood upon grass that at last seemed tinged with green.

_Cheer up! Cheer up!_ He turned to find a tiny goldcrest had lit on the hedge near his hand, and was clinging onto a sturdy stalk determinedly as it turned its head to examine him. _Cheer up! Cheer up!_ it advised him before suddenly letting go and allowing the wind to carry it away.

Robin Smallburrow stood there for some time, his cloak now steaming, and the feather in his cap shedding its burden of dampness and taking again its proper shape. He suddenly shivered, and then laughed aloud.

"Don't know as what's just happened," he said aloud to himself, "but it does appear as spring's finally come. And about time it is!"

He now stepped boldly upon the Road and turned east. He might be forced to stay in Frogmorton and he might remain for a time at the beck and call of the likes of Lotho Pimple, but he knew now he could bear with it, and would survive the storm. The sun had come again past all hope when it seemed the brown must overshadow the world forever; and he knew now there _would_ come an end to the tyranny of Lotho and his Big Men. He'd be like the goldcrests, and would cling on until the winds of the heavens at last washed them away!

"Cheer up! Cheer up!" he sang aloud, mimicking the call of the birds as he turned toward the future—and through it to the good he knew was headed their way at last! And he whistled one of the songs old Mad Baggins had used to sing as he headed toward Frogmorton.


	3. Before their Eyes

_Written for the LOTR Community "Pairs" challenge. For AnnMarwalk for her birthday. Beta by RiverOtter. A true drabble._

**Before their Eyes**

The Hobbits of the Shire stared in fascination. Long had they said _"When the King returns"_ and meant _Never!_ But today King and Queen stood upon the Brandywine Bridge and gave honor to the Mayor, the Master, and the Thain and their Ladies, and laughed at Pippin Took's sallies, nodded at Sam Gamgee's aphorisms, and spoke of future plans with Merry Brandybuck. When the King lifted a glass of wine in honor of Frodo Baggins, though, all were surprised to see tears in his eyes, and grief on the Queen's face.

_But he cared not for the Shire,_ they thought.


	4. The Mystery of the Brown Ghost

_Written for the A_L_E_C "Things that go bump in the night" challenge. For Illereyn and Nieriel Raina's birthdays. Beta by RiverOtter._

The Mystery of the Brown Ghost

"There! Do you hear it?" Eldarion asked his friend Elboron.

The son of the Prince of Ithilien peered out of the shallow cupboard in which the two of them crouched and shook his head. They were in one of the suites of rooms in the upper level above the offices at the front of the citadel, a suite that by tradition had been inhabited by the heirs to the lordship of Gondor, first by the King's Heir and later by that of the Ruling Steward in the millennia after the disappearance of Eärnur, before the Return of the King. "I hear nothing!" he whispered to his companion.

But then both went still, for definitely something had gone _"Bump!"_ quite near their hiding place, a bump that was followed quickly by another sound that neither could identify. There was a whirring noise, a whirring noise that was accompanied by a series of lesser _bumps!_ in quick succession. That was followed by a decided whine of some sort that caused the hair of both boys to rise on the backs of their respective necks. Both were frozen to immobility until at last all again went still.

At last Elboron stirred. "I like it not!" he murmured in the ear of his friend.

Eldarion almost nodded his agreement, but stopped himself. "But we should learn what causes it," he breathed softly.

Elboron shrugged as if he weren't anywhere as certain of that plan as was the King's son, but his shoulders straightened as he put his hand on the hilt of the long knife he wore at his waist, a gift to him last _Mettarë_. He took a long breath and held it, and at last, the two of them in accord, they pushed open the cupboard and slipped out into the room.

But although they went through the seven rooms within the suite most thoroughly, they found nothing but some feathers upon the floor under the clerestory window that lit the room ordinarily used as a bedroom or office or private study by whoever inhabited the set of chambers.

"A great owl's feathers," Elboron noted as they examined this find. "Whoever lived here last must have spent some time within Ithilien."

Disappointed to find nothing else out of the ordinary, the two of them slipped out of the suite and closed the door behind them, just in time to hear the bells summoning those residing within the Citadel to their dinners.

(I) (I) (I)

"And where have the two of you been all afternoon?" inquired Prince Faramir as the two boys arrived to join their families at the high table in the greater dining hall. "Your tutors have reported you have been nowhere to be found much of the day."

The two boys exchanged looks that were cut short when the King and his wife entered together. The Lord Elessar and Lady Arwen said nothing as they took their place at the center of the high table, although their looks at the boys still managed to repeat the question wordlessly. But it was not until after the Standing Silence was complete that either of them could answer.

"There has been a strange apparition in the upper levels of the Citadel," Eldarion explained, nodding to the page who came forward to proffer a basin of water in which to lave his hands. "Thank you," he said, accepting the towel offered and then returning it to the youth's arm. "We went to investigate it. One of the younger maids who cleans was unnerved by the noises, and told me of them the other day. I went to the room and found nothing, and today Elboron went with me."

"And again you found nothing?" the King asked.

"Naught but some owl feathers," Elboron answered.

King and Steward exchanged glances, and the two boys could see that Elboron's father had a mysterious smile on his face. "Do you know what could have caused the noise, my lord?" asked Eldarion.

"Ah, but it appears that the Brown Ghost may have returned to the Prince's Chambers," Faramir said. The Queen and the Princess of Ithilien exchanged inquiring looks before returning their attention to their menfolk.

"A Brown Ghost dwells at times in the Prince's Chambers?" asked the Lord Elessar.

Faramir nodded. "Such was true when my brother and I were young. Many of the maids would refuse to go into those rooms for fear of it, uncertain as they were of the apparent moans and thumps and other odd sounds such as were often heard there. Although there were those who would take those rooms at times and who swore they heard no such things. It appears that the Brown Ghost is not a constant inhabitant there."

He paused as the servers arrived with the first course of the meal. Once all had served themselves and he had himself eaten some of his soup and bread, he continued. "Boromir was certain that there was some great mystery here, so he determined to spend the night within the bedchamber, and I, not being willing to be denied a night in his company, declared myself his companion, and nothing would turn me from my decision. Our father merely smiled indulgently and ordered Boromir's governor and my nurse to allow us our way." He swallowed several more spoons of soup before continuing.

"The bed used by the last one to inhabit those chambers was still there, and all disapproving, Boromir's governor accompanied us there with proper linens and blankets, and saw the bed made up for our use, once Boromir had pulled the white dust sheet from it with his own hands. Then my brother sent him away most imperiously—and, I fear, quite cheekily for a youth of a mere twelve summers, and we went to the bathing chamber and prepared ourselves for our night of watching.

"I had brought several books with me, for we were quite determined to remain awake throughout the whole night. At first I read aloud to Boromir, although I doubt he enjoyed the story I read half as much as he did simply listening to my voice.

"But I was but a small boy of seven, and soon tired. In the end, Boromir took the last of the pile of books I'd brought and began reading it to me. I refused to lie down, but sat up, leaning more and more against his side as the evening progressed, and at last I fell asleep. He told me later I had my thumb in my mouth when I did so, a detail I denied but must admit might well have been true at the time. He laid me down more comfortably, and set himself to watch. But he, too, was beginning to nod when he felt a shadow fall upon him, briefly obscuring the light from the clerestory window in the room; but when he looked upwards the light of the moon shone down upon us once more. He heard nothing more for quite a while, and at last he drowsed for a time, until he heard shrill cries over us as the light again was darkened. Something dropped upon the bed between us, and he was so terrified he grabbed me and dragged me from it, fleeing the room as swiftly as he could induce me to go with him. Afterwards he berated himself for a craven coward, but our father merely shook his head and told him a wise captain knows when to retreat until he has more knowledge."

"And did you never find out the true history of the Brown Ghost?" the King asked him.

"In time we did. We were much older when we did so, my brother and I. But we learned by watching from outside the Citadel. The Brown Ghost remained in residence for the rest of the summer after we slept in the room, but did not return for several years. Then when I was fourteen summers the maids again spoke of fearful noises within the Prince's Chambers, and Boromir and I again slipped into the rooms to search for clues—but in the daylight this time. What I found gave me an idea as to the nature of the apparition, and I suggested to my brother that we could most likely confirm my theory by watching the clerestory window that allowed the moonlight to fall upon the bed below from the outside of the Citadel on the night of the next full moon. Boromir thought at first I was as afraid as he'd been at twelve, but agreed afterwards with me that we saw far better from our vantage point below the branches of the White Tree than we would have seen from inside the room. Father was most impressed at the time."

"And what is the truth of the Brown Ghost?" demanded Eldarion.

But the Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor merely smiled mysteriously. "And where is the challenge in telling you what you will best learn on your own?" he asked. "You and my son are wise and brave beyond your years. Let you find your own way to understanding the nature and aims of the Brown Ghost much as my father allowed us to do when Boromir and I were young."

(I) (I) (I)

The moon was full the night that Elboron and Eldarion chose to spend the night keeping watch on the windows of the Prince's Chambers from the Court of Gathering before the Citadel. The King and his Steward gave orders that no further guard needed to be kept on the two youths beyond those who kept the watch on the White Tree and those who stood guard before the doors of the Citadel itself, but as the hour of midnight neared the two Men and a single bodyguard slipped out to take cover under the White Tree where they could keep an eye on their two sons, who had unrolled bedrolls under the light of the moon itself.

"You have not told me the true nature of the Brown Ghost," breathed Lord Aragorn Elessar in his friend's ear.

Faramir again smiled mysteriously as he replied softly, "And shall I deny you the right to learn as do your son and mine, as did Boromir and I?"

The King shrugged, and settled down. Pulling his grey-green cloak about himself, he willed himself to stillness. So the two former Rangers kept watch on the two boys as the two boys watched the window.

There was a soft murmur between the two youths that at last went quiet. It appeared the two of them would fall asleep and leave the mystery unsolved, when suddenly there was a dark winged shape that threw a shadow upon the two bedrolls. No, they were not asleep after all, as both boys immediately rose to their feet and peered toward the dark gap that marked where the clerestory window to the Prince's Chambers stood open to allow air to move freely into the upper levels of the Citadel.

"What is it?" demanded Elboron.

But Eldarion was smiling broadly. "I saw it!" he said. "If we go in now, we can perhaps see more clearly!" He leaned down to scoop up the blankets and rug he'd rested upon and headed swiftly toward the Citadel, and Elboron was left to hurry after him, wrapping the loose ends of fabric from his own bedroll about his arms to keep them from dragging the ground to trip him up as he did his best to follow his friend as swiftly as he might. And without making any noise, the three men followed after the boys.

The door guards kept the doors open for the fathers and their guard, and soon the men were climbing the stairs to the upper story at the front of the Citadel. Elboron and Eldarion had left the door to the Prince's Chambers open, and Faramir grabbed up an oil lamp that stood in a niche to take with them. Within they could hear a series of shrill cries, and they found their way to the door to the main bedchamber.

Not far inside the room stood the two boys, peering upwards intently. Above them, over the place where the bedstead should lie, they could see the light falling upon the floor from the clerestory window, and opposite it in the dormer in which it had been placed was a ledge. The boys did not appear surprised to be joined by their fathers. Now the four of them crowded to a vantage point where they could see the ledge clearly. And looking down at them round yellow eyes-

"An owl!" whispered Elboron.

"A family of owls!" amended Eldarion as the parent turned its head to regard the shrilly crying young who were demanding their share of whatever delicacy it had brought. A second shadow followed the first, and a second large owl landed beside its mate, clearly bearing a mouse in its beak, the mouse's tail trembling as the parent shook its head.

"Had Boromir considered the sheet that covered the bed on the night we slept here," Faramir commented as they peered upwards together, "he would have realized that birds nested up there."

"And that is the source of the owl feathers we found," Elboron said softly. "How wonderful! We have peregrine falcons that nest on window ledges outside, and owls who nest here, in the Prince's own chambers!"

Eldarion's wide smile continued. "And I'll be glad enough to share with them, when these rooms are my own," he declared.

His father placed his arm about his son's shoulders as one of the young owlets clattered its beak and shook its wings, thumping softly against the wall as it took the mouse from its parent. With a soft hoot the two parents turned and ghosted out the window once more….


	5. For Legolas

_Written for the Tolkien Weekly "Perfect Gifts" gold, silver, and gems challenge. For Baranduin for her birthday._

For Legolas

Gimli stood for some time at his forge, considering what gold, silver, or gems he might work into a proper gift for Legolas for the Elf's begetting day celebration. He would be the Lord of those Elves who removed from Eryn Lasgalen to the new community being formed within Ithilien, after all.

He looked down on the golden beech leaf that lay on his workbench, and knew what he would do. "A circlet of leaves," he said aloud. "Much as his father wears, but with the beeches of Ithilien rather than the oak leaves of Eryn Lasgalen predominating. With emeralds…."

~0~

_Yes, I've been reminded that the beeches were the favorite trees of the Elves of Mirkwood, but please imagine they preferred oak leaves for the King's circlet! Heh!_


	6. Wishing Bliss

_For the Tolkien Weekly Gifts: Loving Companionship challenge. For Chibi Amber for her birthday. Beta by RiverOtter._

Wishing Bliss

Faramir and Aragorn stood together in the chamber where they had been making ready for the ceremony to come, the Steward looking up into the eyes of his new King, whom he already had found to be worshipful. "I can wish nothing better for you than this," the Lord Elessar was saying, "that you might find your bliss even as have I, and that from this day forward you, too, might know the comfort of loving companionship with one fully worthy of your affections, and who finds in you the same. For you both have proved yourselves beyond all expectations…."


	7. A Moment of Connection

_Written for the A_L_E_C "Remembrance" challenge. For Azalais for her birthday. And thanks to RiverOtter for the beta._

A Moment of Connection

"Where are you going, you daft Elf?" demanded Gimli.

Legolas gave a quick glance over his shoulder at the Dwarf seated behind him on Arod's back, but gave no more answer than an enigmatic shake of his head. Aragorn, who was checking the girth of Roheryn's saddle, glanced over at his companions curiously, then nodded as if he appreciated the Elf's purpose as Legolas turned his horse back toward the site of their recent victory. Gimli noted that Gandalf gave them no attention at all, his own concerns apparently focused on the still forms of Frodo and Sam on their litters.

Arod snorted a slight protest as the Elf guided him around the root of the mountains toward the battlefield. Still, the horse proved obedient in spite of its obvious disapproval of its rider's goal. Carefully it picked its way amidst the rubble. A few hardy soldiers, cloths tied over their faces, worked amidst the remaining evidence of carnage, still separating bodies of those who'd fought among the forces of the Army of the West from those of its foes, gathering weapons and armor, piling the bodies of trolls and orcs here, laying those of Easterlings there, those of Southrons there, those of Men of other lands elsewhere, now and then finding one who yet lived and calling for a wagon to bear the wounded Man off of the field.

Legolas appeared to be ignoring them all. He rode on until they reached a point where he could look through the gap where the Black Gate had stood. In the distance they could see the smokes that marked the ruins of Mount Doom, and the nearer pile of rubble that was all that was left of the Black Tower of Barad-dûr. Here Arod finally halted. Gimli could tell that the horse was uncomfortable by the tension he felt in the muscles of Arod's back, but at a soothing word and touch from Legolas the horse calmed, although its ears still swiveled as if listening for the approach of an enemy.

They sat so for some minutes, the Elf looking thoughtfully into the former land of Mordor. At last he sat straighter, and at a slight shift in his body coaxed Arod to turn slowly. Now he looked behind the site where the battle had raged, toward the distant shimmer of reflected light that indicated where the Dead Marshes lay. Absently he rubbed the horse's neck as he considered the area. At last he spoke, his melodious voice soft. "That is where the bodies of the dead were buried before, when my father and grandfather fought here. Elves, Men, Orcs—I think perhaps even a few Dwarves fought at times here as well, mostly those who'd come as messengers from the upper vales of the Anduin who'd stayed to slake the thirst of their axes with the black blood of the Enemy's forces, or who had nothing to which they might return. Ten years of frustration and loss, constant siege, separation from families and loved ones, repeated assaults by the Enemy's orcs and allies. So many who marched forth from the Greenwood failed to return home again, and if any of my people ever see them again it will not be here, within Middle Earth."

He went quiet once more, his eyes still fixed on the place where so many lay. Aragorn had spoken of his own sojourn there last evening when he'd come away from his labours amongst the wounded to take a brief rest, describing the appearance of ghostly bodies seeming to lie in the fetid pools. At last Legolas sighed. "It is over at last," he murmured, "all the watch we have kept so long on the Black Land. Yea, it is over, and at least, this time, no Elves or Dwarves died here, within or in sight of Mordor. We may have died elsewhere in defense of our own lands, but we did not die here as happened before."

Arod, sensing that they would be leaving this dread place soon, pranced impatiently as again his rider straightened. "Sleep well, Oropher, Ereinion Gil-galad, and so many, many others," the Elf called out. "Your sacrifice was not in vain, you will find. And when the time is right, I look to behold you again within Aman, and to greet you with the word that your enemy is indeed cast down, and this time will not rise again." He gave a surprisingly deep bow toward the marshes, and Arod, his head raised proudly, again began picking his way through the rubble toward the way south toward the camp, the muscles under Gimli rippling as the horse and its riders put the battlefield and the dead behind them.


	8. Anticipation

_Written for CuriousWombat and Surgical Steel for their birthdays. Thanks to RiverOtter for the beta!_

Anticipation

Fabric had been brought to the camp in Ithilien, including some work from Belestor's own tailor shop in the First Circle. As he remembered and had instructed the messengers, all that was found in his second workroom had been brought to him, and that included the clothing he had been working on for his own son and his two nephews, shirts and trews, small clothes and surcoats, intended for the three youths to take with them when they left the city in the following fall to visit for a year with their grandsire in Dol Amroth.

His brother had laughed when told that Belestor had already begun sewing garments for that time. _"As fast as they grow, they will be beyond such clothing ere they leave Minas Tirith!"_ he'd exclaimed.

Belestor had snorted in reply. _"Do not think I take no care for that,"_ he'd answered. _"I know the ways of growing boys well enough!"_

But then had come the word that the Enemy was on the march, and the boys were sent off even as winter gave over to spring, with sufficient fabric and money that hopefully their grandfather could see them properly clothed as needed when the time came. There had been no time to finish aught he'd been working upon.

But now it was no longer work for naught, he reflected as he lifted two completed sleeves and considered as to whether or not they would be long enough. He brought out his knotted string and the measurements he'd made, and compared them to the notes, his brow furrowed in thought. Then his frown smoothed and he smiled. They would do!

He found his thread and three steel needles in their bone case, needles long treasured by his own grandfather, from whom he'd learned his trade. _"'Tis said that they came from the Elves who lived betimes in Edhellond,"_ the old Man had told him. _"They are said to have come perhaps from the Blessed Realm itself, the work of a Noldor smith. Surely my own father and his before him treasured them, for they told me that all that was sewn with them proved true and comely, becoming well those who wore them. They will be yours one day, if you truly intend to follow our family craft."_

And his they were, brought by him when he followed the Lady Finduilas to the White City. Long had he sewn garments for the use of her sons and husband from the comfort of his workrooms in the First Circle. _And her shroud,_ he thought, sobering once more as he began piecing together the tunic to which the sleeves belonged. He had grieved so when she'd left the Bounds of Arda, and prayed she watched over her still living son, there in the Houses of Healing.

Her sons were far too tall for such garments as these, he knew, but now they would serve a nobler purpose than had been intended. Carefully he sewed, keeping his stitches properly fine and even for the needs of the ones for whom they were now intended. Others from the camp of the Men of the City began to gather, watching with interest and pride as Belestor carefully prepared these for the use of the Ringbearers, for the day on which they would, hopefully, awaken again to receive the honor of the Army of the West.


	9. Farewell to Family and Friends

_Written for the Tolkien Weekly Community Gifts: A Bright Future challenge. Beta by RiverOtter._

Farewell to Family and Friends

Aragorn looked about the table in the Royal Quarters where he sat one final time at dinner with his personal household, at his son and daughters and their spouses, his grandchildren, at Legolas and Gimli, and at Faramir Took, who like his father had chosen to live out his final years in the King's household in Minas Tirith. "I cannot look to spend much longer in any case. Instead I would have you all remember me as I was, and so I wish all a bright future under the rule of my so capable son."

Eldarion's eyes held bright tears.


	10. The Cat

_For Aruthir for his birthday. Thanks to RiverOtter for the beta._

The Cat

"Please, Dad, can't we keep him?"

The Gaffer sighed, and looked none too kindly on the animal Marigold held in her arms. This was no kitten, but a rangy and ragged tom, his ear battered and with a large lump on the inside of his right foreleg that told of battles with other toms and that was undoubtedly filled with infection. By rights he ought to tell the children no….

But it wasn't that long since their mum died, and he knew full well that there was no way he could say _no_ to that look in his daughter's eyes!


	11. A Matter of Duty

_Written for the LOTR Community "Two Sides" challenge. For Garnet Took for her birthday. Beta by RiverOtter._

A Matter of Duty

Gilmaros, Captain of the Guard of the Citadel, looked at the two men brought before him, his eyes bright with concern. Halargil had served more than a score of years as one of Lord Denethor's personal guards, while Beregond had ever been faithful as a member of the Third Company.

Halargil was a seasoned warrior, having served under their Lord Steward Denethor during his days as the Captain-General of the forces of Gondor and Commander of the garrison in Osgiliath. He and his wife had a house near the bottom of the ramp from the level of the Citadel to the Sixth Circle, on the near end of Isil Lane. He was due to retire soon, and had planned to perhaps purchase a farm upon the Pelennor where he might raise poultry. He and his wife had ever kept a small coop behind their house, and ever had fresh eggs to share with others.

Beregond was but in his late thirties, a widower whose son stayed in the home of his brother Iorlas under the care of Iorlas's wife, when the boy was not up in the Sixth Circle helping to clean the barracks or assisting in the buttery for his father's company. Indeed, it was known that in spite of his low birth Bergil was being considered for a position as a page within the Citadel; there was no question that he intended to join the Guard of the Citadel himself when he came of an age to do so.

And now both Men were before him, both with faces grey with shock at what they had done. Beregond stood tall and still, his eyes wary and yet with still a hint of challenge to them. If what Gilmaros had been told was true, there was a good chance that he would be forced to kneel to the headsman's sword all too soon. Leaving one's post without permission from either the Steward or himself was, after all, a capital offense.

As for Halargil….

The older Guardsman was shaking, and his forehead heavily beaded with sweat. Suddenly concerned that Halargil might collapse, Gilmaros signaled to his aide to bring a chair that the man might sit. Fortunately it arrived in good time, and instead of falling to the ground, Halargil managed to sit down heavily, his lip trembling as he wiped a shaking hand across his face.

"Tell me, Halargil—what is it that happened while you were on watch over our Lord Steward Denethor?"

A muscle in Halargil's right cheek was twitching irregularly as he sought for words. "I was outside the chamber where Lord Denethor sat by the cot on which his son lay. Lord Denethor—he was—he was not there when I—when I came on duty. They tell me he had been in the topmost chamber of the Tower of Ecthelion, wrestling with the Enemy in thought. I had been outside the hall for a good hour or better when—when he returned. He was pale, his eyes deep-sunk beneath his brows. He did not appear to notice as I opened the door to allow him to enter the room where his son lay, and he left the door open after him. He—he sat—heavily—by the cot, taking his son's hand in his own.

"The night was waning when he stooped over Lord Faramir, feeling his face. He stated that his son was dying, and that—that it was time to take him to the Silent Street. He sent his body servants out to bring more blankets and—and torches."

Through all this time he had not looked at Gilmaros more than fleetingly, his attention apparently fixed on the memory of what had happened. Now at last he looked into the Captain's eyes, and he reached out his hand to grasp desperately at that of Gilmaros. "You must understand—he said that Faramir was dying, and we were certain he was right—everyone except for the _Pherian_ Guardsman, young Peregrin son of Paladin. I do not believe that Peregrin understood what the Steward purposed to do. The Lord Steward indicated that Artamir and I were to each take a torch, and that Faramir's personal guards were to take two more and follow behind.

"He had the servants lay Faramir upon the embalmer's table, and himself beside his son. Then he sent us to fetch wood and oil, and Artamir alone remained to guard the two of them. Guardsman Peregrin had followed after, and was aghast that our lord would think to burn himself and his son, and he begged us to go slowly, and to remember that Faramir was yet alive. When I demanded to know who was Lord of the city, he told me-" He swallowed heavily; now his eyes were repeatedly pulling to the right, even as had been the muscle in his cheek. At last he resumed, "He told me that our Master had clearly gone mad, and so if anyone was now in charge of the city it must be Mithrandir, and that he was gone to fetch the Wizard. So saying, he ran off, and far swifter than I had ever thought to see one as small as he to run.

"I swear—I swear, the same madness that had taken our Lord Denethor had taken us as well. We went out of the Silent Street and back up to the level of the Citadel, but found that the stores of oil had been depleted—that earlier in the week supplies had been sent to each of the guesthouses on the Sixth Circle that no house should be without oil there. We had to come back down to the Sixth Circle and to the storehouses beyond the Guards' barracks to find either wood or oil in sufficient quantities to meet Lord Denethor's requirements. It took several trips before we had enough wood to please him, and then he sent us to fetch more oil.

"We returned to find—_this one_-" He shot a poisonous look at Beregond. "This one had come to the gate of the Silent Street and demanded that the porter should open the way. But the porter would not do so, saying that he could not do so other than to those he knew to be serving personally upon Lord Denethor without the Lord Steward's direct permission. _This one_ had not been able to convince the porter, and in the end he'd slain him and taken his keys to open the gate. Now he stood before the door and sought to deny us entry to the House of the Stewards. Artamir came out and demanded that he return to his proper duty on the gate to the Sixth Circle and let the Steward be. But he would not! Artamir drew his sword and threatened him, and in the end this one raised his own weapon anew to protect himself!"

Halargil's voice had become a harsh whisper. "He slew Artamir! He slew one of the servants as well! And when our lord would have come out, he held the door closed with one hand and threatened us with the other! We could hear Lord Denethor calling out for him to give way, hear him seeking to throw open the door, hear him beating upon the wood—but _this one_ would not allow him to come forth—the Lord Steward! He denied the Lord Steward himself! How dare he?"

Beregond licked his lips, and stepped forward to lean with his hands braced against the desk. "I could not," he whispered, his face bloodless. "I could not allow them to enter in with more oil—when I got there already the smell of it was strong within the chamber! The servant who held the torch within the House of the Stewards came out to remonstrate with me, and I managed to drive him down the steps, and pulled the door closed. Then Artamir came forth, pulled the door from my hands, and I had no choice but to defend myself! I had no choice! And I could hear the groans of Lord Faramir—there was no question but that he was yet alive! Am I to allow them to slay a wounded man out of hand on the word of one clearly taken by madness? Who would be Lord of Gondor should, in his own madness, Lord Denethor manage to slay himself _and_ his son? Already is our land bereft of the proper heir to the Steward, Lord Boromir having died upon the northern borders! Are we to lose Lord Faramir also, and before his time?"

"It is not yours to question the orders of the Ruling Steward of Gondor!" hissed Halargil.

"It is my responsibility, as a Guard of the Citadel, to protect the ruler of Gondor and his heirs from all harm!" insisted Beregond. "I could not protect the Steward from his own madness, but I _could_ and _did_ protect his remaining heir!"

"He was dying!"

"We do not know that—he was yet alive, and where there is life there is yet hope!"

"And what hope have we, with the Enemy at the gate, and in such numbers?"

"But the Enemy is no longer at the gate, or have you failed to notice that?" demanded Beregond.

Halargil went still, and his pale face went even greyer, his lips nearly blue, his eyes caught by those of Beregond. "What do you mean?"

"The battle still rages, but no longer is the Enemy at the Gates to the City. For even as we bore Faramir from the Silent Street we could hear the horns of the Rohirrim as they bore down upon the foe! And Berestor came but a short time ago to tell the Captain here that the black ships seen upon the river carry not more enemies but instead men from the south, from the vale of the Morthond and from Dol Amroth and Pelargir! Angbor has come with reinforcements—and others! Strangers dressed in grey and green as if they were themselves Rangers of the borderlands, who fight from horseback with unsurpassed skill! Hope returned to Gondor with the rising of the Sun, and even now are the veils of Mordor being wrought asunder by a south wind I am certain the Nameless One never intended to blow this day!"

The two men now looked at one another, Halargil's eyes frantically searching those of the younger Guardsman, trying to assure himself that his words were a lie.

"He speaks truly," Gilmaros said heavily, and Halargil turned to face him, his eyes still wide with shock, and the tic even more pronounced. "The emblems of Elendil the Tall were unfurled upon the deck of the largest ship, and one bearing what must be the Elendilmir led those who came off of it, riding a great brown war horse, his standard bearer at his side. It appears that the Heir to Isildur has come to raise the siege of Minas Tirith, even as of old Eärnur went to Arnor to succor the army of Arvedui against the assault by the Witch-king of Angmar. The day grows late now, and the Enemy's forces are in retreat—those who are not already dead."

Halargil's mouth moved wordlessly for some moments. At last Beregond said, "We have not been defeated, Halargil. And had our Lord Steward's will been followed, Gondor would be even now without a proper Lord."

"But we must obey the orders of the Steward!" whispered Halargil, collapsing forward upon the surface of the desk, the side of his face pressed heavily against the wood.

"Indeed, that is our vow," returned Beregond. "But what of those times when doing so endangers the realm? Yea, our fealty is to the Steward—but is it not equally to the entire land of Gondor?"

"What happened within the tomb of the Stewards?" asked Gilmaros at length. "How came it that Lord Denethor destroyed himself?"

Halargil rolled his head wordlessly against the desk, and with a sigh Beregond explained, "It was at the coming of Mithrandir with Guardsman Peregrin before him. He demanded that we stay this madness, at which time I let go the door to the tomb, and Lord Denethor came forth, his own sword unsheathed, intent on slaying me where I stood. And I would have allowed it, had the Wizard not intervened and forced the Steward back into the chamber, following him closely. The rest of us came after, and we could hear Faramir calling out in his fever, calling for his father. Denethor forgot all else and dropped his sword upon the floor, hurrying to the table where already oil had been poured over the wood, reaching out to touch his son's forehead.

"But Mithrandir took up Lord Faramir's body and brought it out of the tomb and set it again upon the bed that lay before the doors, bidding Lord Denethor not to deny his son aid when he was not yet dead and indeed might not die after all. He insisted that Denethor return to the Citadel and lead the defense of the White City, and once more did Faramir thrash about and call for his father. Only Denethor grew distant and grim, and swore that although the Wizard denied him his son, he could not deny his right to rule his own end. And he brought out—I am not certain what it was he held, but must guess that it was the Seeing Stone of which legends speak. He held it up and insisted it showed a dark threat already approaching the city that could not be denied, and would not listen when Mithrandir sought to speak out against whatever it was he had seen within. Instead he demanded obedience from us, and that one give him a torch!"

"And whose hand gave him that torch?" demanded Gilmaros.

Beregond's eyes squeezed closed in grief, and he would not speak. And so it was that the dead voice of Halargil answered the Captain's question: "It was from my hand he took it. I pressed forward, and he took the torch from me."

Gilmaros stood and turned away from both of them. His aide stood behind him, his face filled with grief and horror. "What will you do?" the aide asked him.

"What can I do?" Gilmaros returned. "I could order Beregond slain outright. The law is clear—he left his post without order or permission. He spilled blood in the Hallows, killing the porter, a fellow Guard of the Citadel, and one of Lord Denethor's own body servants. But in doing so he may well have allowed our land to continue in proper order, for Lord Faramir is yet alive, if barely, and I must suppose that until he draws his last breath he is now the Ruling Steward of Gondor. What disorder might have befallen our nation had Lord Denethor been allowed to do as he intended in slaying not only himself but his son as well I cannot say. I doubt that the Council would have easily accepted Lord Húrin as Steward, seeing that he is grandson to Ecthelion by way of his older daughter rather than through a second son, not to mention the fact he is maimed."

He turned back to look upon the two men on the other side of his desk. "It is not up to me to mete out justice here, I deem," he said. "Yet until Faramir—or another—takes over rule of Gondor and the City, I must make shift to do what I can to see to it that both justice and what is right are equally served. I am sorry, Beregond, but I must require you to put off the emblems of the Guard of the Citadel. The Quartermaster has plain black shirts proper to those who are no longer in full service to the Guard, and that you must wear until your case is heard by whoever it is that takes up the rule of Gondor. However, Lord Mithrandir has made a request—that as you offered up your position and possibly your very life in service to Lord Faramir, whom you clearly love, that you should be sent to the Houses of Healing to share the guard before his door until he is either returned to health or until he dies.

"As for you, Halargil…."

But it appeared that Halargil had lost consciousness. His hand had slid from the surface of the desk, and his body twitched uncontrollably.

Both Beregond and the aide moved forward to the older Guardsman's side. The aide looked up to catch the eyes of his Captain. "A brain storm!" he said. "He suffers a brain storm!"

Gilmaros sighed. "Then he must go to the Houses of Healing—not that they will be able to do a great deal for him, I deem, with so many wounded being brought into their precincts." He shook his head in grief. "Alas that in spite of the triumphs of this day so much evil should manage to invade the White City itself! Now go!"

The aide went to the door and called for assistance, and soon Halargil was borne out of the office to receive what aid might come to him, and Beregond made to follow them. Gilmaros stayed him briefly with a hand upon the young Guard's arm. "I am sorry, Beregond. You have been a good man to have amongst our number."

"I am not sorry for what I have done, even if I must die for it. At least our beloved Lord Faramir has a chance to live, as slim as it might be, and none will question his claim to the Black Chair. But my son—I fear that there will be no place for him now within the Citadel as a page."

"Probably not," agreed Gilmaros.

"Please, I beg of you—do not let him see me die."

"I promise—if it should come to that, my friend. For, after all, we have no idea as to what tomorrow might bring. If indeed the Heir of Isildur fights before the City upon the Pelennor…."

And in his heart Gilmaros felt a lightening of the grief he'd known but moments before. The day outside might be now ending, but who could tell now what tomorrow might bring? He felt himself smiling reassuringly at Beregond as the younger man gave his final salute and went out to find the Quartermaster.


	12. The Begetting day Gift

_For Jay of Lasgalen, who loves the twins, and Cairistiona, who loves Aragorn, for their birthdays. Beta by RiverOtter._

The Begetting Day Gift

Elrohir's mouth fell open as he looked down at his brother, sitting upon the ground, rubbing at his suddenly stinging wrist and staring at his sword, which was slowly turning its final twist upon the ground.

Estel took a deep breath, slid his own weapon back into its sheath, and lifted a hand to brush sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes. His voice was almost steady as he said, "You told me that I could ride out with the warriors once I'd bested one of you with my sword. For your begetting day, you have another fighter in your company."


	13. The Gift

_Written in honor of the Henneth-Annun list's ninth birthday, as well as honoring the birthdays of Agape and Rhyselle. Joy to all of you!_

_Set during Aragorn's first visit to Harad as described in "Lesser Ring."_

The Gift

The northern trader watched with awe as the smith before him worked the white-hot metal bar on his anvil into a blade. As often as he had seen this done, it was still a marvel to see the transformation.

"He will fold the metal two more times at least," said Bhatfiri, the captain of his caravan guards, from his place at the trader's elbow. "It will be a fine blade once it is finished. Now, come, Horubi'ninarin, and see what swords and knives he has ready to sell."

Reluctantly the northerner turned away from the smith to follow his guide away from the forge and into the shelter of the awning set to provide shade from the blazing Sun of Far Harad. "And you say that those who work metal in the region of Ephir are even better smiths than this?" he asked. "I have watched many smiths throughout the northern lands, and he is the equal of most."

The Southron made a dismissive noise. "He is nothing!" Bhatfiri pronounced in low tones. "Oh, he is most competent. But those who work in the forges of Ephir are true artisans, and their weapons are not only serviceable but are works of art as well. Only the few Elven swords I have seen have been their equal—or better, perhaps."

"Then you've not seen the products of Dwarven forges," the trader assured him. "Their swords and knives tend to be broader and perhaps somewhat heavier than the work of Elven smiths, but still are filled with a beauty that must be seen to be fully appreciated."

"Then you have such works in your stores?" asked the guardsman.

"I have four at home, one given me by a Dwarf I saved from an orc attack. This was not made for trade, but by himself for his own use. My brothers were most impressed, for such tokens of appreciation are not lightly given, and they say they have not seen better."

The smith's wife came out of the houseplace carrying a tray of copper, on which sat stoneware cups of the herbal drink favored in the region. She was a small woman, gone to roundness, her skin rather leathery, her hair thinned with age, her eyes bright and watchful. "You sit," she directed in the traders' tongue. "You sit, drink _l__ûochi_. I bring out—samples. Samples of husband's work."

The trader bowed his head respectfully. "And we than you for the _l__ûochi_, mistress." He folded himself with remarkable grace onto the rug provided for guests, and she set the tray upon the low carved table between them, obviously pleased by his courtesy.

She left the two men to serve themselves from the tray, and soon returned with a heavy box, which she set down heavily by the side of the northerner. "Here," she said proudly. "My husband make these."

Each weapon was carefully wrapped in heavy cotton cloth. Most were daggers or belt knives, but there were three short swords, two of which were protected by finely tooled leather scabbards. The trader carefully lifted one of these from the box, turning it to examine the workmanship of the sheath and the grip. The leather was embossed with what appeared to be poppy blossoms, through which a serpent slithered. The grip was of an ebon wood, finely polished, with a copper serpent wound about it to bind the two sides together, the serpent's head with its lapis eyes extending beyond the grip over the outside of the scabbard.

"Beautiful work," he known here as Horubi'ninarin murmured, drawing the blade from its sheath. "Yes," he said, definitely pleased, as he turned the short sword to examine the smith's workmanship.

The woman beamed. "My husband—him good smith. None better!"

In the end the trader took this short sword, a dagger, and two belt knives, haggling skillfully with the woman, who appreciated the value of her husband's work well. If she commanded a better price from the northerner than she normally did, he was not upset, and when done awarded her with a shawl of fine wool carefully decorated in shades of blue with a beautiful butterfly motif. "For you, mother," he said. "To keep you warm in the cool of the evening. It is from the Shire, the source of perhaps the finest woolens in all of Middle Earth!"

Her expression had softened, and she stroked the soft wool with eyes filled with wonder. "The _nemir_!" she whispered. "So beautiful!"

As they secured their purchases onto their pack camel and made to lead it from the village, Bhatfiri commented, "You have just raised her status high within the region. No other will have such a beautiful shawl."

"And she deserves it," the trader said. "She has a good husband, and does him proud. Such respect between husband and wife deserves recognition."

Behind him the wife of the smith draped the shawl about her shoulders, relishing the softness and beauty of the work of a woman far away who belonged to a race she'd never heard of, recognizing skill equal to that of her husband in bringing beauty to something intended to be serviceable.


	14. Announcing One's Love

_For RiverOtter, my beloved beta reader, for her birthday. She wanted something sparkly._

Announcing One's Love

Having left his pony at the Green Dragon, Pippin paused in his walk up the lane to Bag End to take a moment beneath the mallorn tree in the Party Field. He set his hand to the silver bark and murmured, "I hope your birthday is joyful, Frodo. I wanted to let you know—I'm in love! In love with Diamond of the North-Tooks, there in Long Cleeve. Do you remember her at all? She was always such a mischievous little thing, with no time at all for lads. Although she always hung on your stories. But then we all did!

"Anyway, although I fear she didn't take to me at all at first, by the time I was finished with my visit to Long Cleeve on Lord Strider's business I knew she was the one for me, and she was actually smiling at me. She gave me this flute for her birthday! Listen!"

He brought out the worn flute from the bag on his shoulder. He warmed it between his hands, and began playing one of Bilbo's songs on it.

Far away, on the Lonely Isle, Frodo raised his head as if listening. "What is it?" asked Gandalf.

"Pippin—it's Pippin. Oh, Gandalf, isn't it wonderful? He's in love! Our little Pippin—he's truly in love at last!"

And Frodo turned back to the picture he was drawing, singing along to Pippin's tune played on Diamond's flute, while sparkles of light filtered through the foliage of the White Tree across the parchment on which he sketched the nearly forgotten face of Diamond North-Took.


	15. A Frodo Returns to Bag End

_Written for the A_L_E_C "Seeds" prompt. For Julchen and Sivan for their birthdays._

A Frodo Returns to Bag End

They'd intended to name their firstborn _Frodo_, of course. Who better than his friend, patron, and brother-of-the-heart to name a child after, after all? But then the child had been born a lass instead, and had been named by Frodo as Elanor, after the golden starflowers of Lothlórien. As Sam Gamgee hurried home from his overnight trip to Michel Delving on business, he wondered if this one would be that longed-for son. Another two weeks, and it should be born. He'd not leave Rosie's side again until the babe was come, that he vowed to himself.

One of the Twofoot clan was at the stable as he approached The Green Dragon, and smiled brilliantly at him as he dashed off in the direction of Hobbiton. Had his Rose set a neighbor to alert her that he was on his way home?

The hostler accepted Bill's reins. "You'd best be getting' home as fast as you can get there," Sam was advised. "Big things happenin' there in Bag End!"

And as he approached the hole, it was Marigold who opened the green door for him. He was a bit surprised to see the Gaffer here, sitting in the Master's chair, dandling little Elanorellë on his knee. "Took yer sweet time a-comin' home, didn't you, lad? Almost too late!"

Alarmed, Samwise tore off his cloak and threw it in the direction of the pegs on the wall, and hurried off down the passageway toward the master bedroom.

He heard the shrill cry as he approached the door. "Oh, now if this isn't the most cunning little fellow!" murmured the midwife. "As beautiful a child as one could hope for! Here, Rose Gamgee—your son!"

He burst into the room, his face flushed, his eyes alight with surprise and hope. "A son? It's a lad this time?"

The bundle Rosie was accepting was as red a child as was ever born in the whole of the Shire, and protesting his rude awakening to the outside world with all the considerable strength of his nature, apparently. And there was no question, as she turned it to lay it in the blanket held out by her mother, that this was indeed a fine lad. He looked into her exhausted eyes, and saw that pride he'd seen there a few years earlier when it was Elanor she'd presented to the world. "Well, and there you are!" she whispered. "About time as you got here, don't you think? Come and meet your son!"

The midwife was carrying out the pan with the afterbirth as Sam settled his hip carefully on the edge of the bed, reaching to eagerly take the babe into his own arms. He barely noted anything else as he opened the blanket and looked at his son's sturdy little body, saw that there were five fingers on each tiny hand, five toes on each little foot, that he had a good tongue in the small mouth, and a soft down of dark-colored fuzz on his head. "He'll be as fair as his namefather," Rosie said softly, reaching out a finger to stroke the child's outstretched palm.

Lily looked up from her work of removing the thick toweling from beneath her daughter's hips. "His hair will lighten up, though, just as yours did, lass. He'll not be anywhere as dark haired as Mr. Frodo was."

"Doesn't matter," Sam said, pulling his son closer to his breast, feeling the infant's breath on his own throat as the child's cries settled and as it turned its head to seek for sustenance. "Doesn't matter a whit. Its only right and proper that a Frodo dwell here in Bag End, what was his home for so long and where he loved it so."

And later in the evening, after the bairn had been bathed and had suckled, after Rosie was bathed also and settled down to rest after her labor, and the Gaffer had been helped back down to Number Three by Marigold, and Lily was singing Elanor to sleep in the nursery, Sam settled down in the Master's chair in the parlor, his sleepy son in his arms. He was singing softly under his breath the old song about the Moon coming down to the merry old inn to partake of the brown ale, and he watched as his tiny son stretched and turned his head, seeking a more comfortable position. He went still at last, and Sam smiled down at the little lad. "Welcome, Frodo," he whispered. "Welcome to life and to your proper place here in Bag End." He looked up and caught amused eyes meeting his own. "Isn't he a fine one, Mr. Frodo?" he asked.

_"That he is,"_his Master said, and smiled as he returned to his new life so far away.

And Sam settled into a doze, glad that a Frodo was living once more in Bag End.


	16. Send Sam?

Send Sam?

Eglantine Took eyed the platter that lay on the table before her, empty now save for a few crumbs, with distaste. Intent on filling that one last corner, she'd intended to have that one last walnut pastry. However, that had been snatched up by Odo Proudfoot as he walked by, and even now he was biting into it with gusto.

She turned to her left, where Pippin was still sitting turned away from her, listening to the talk between Will Whitfoot, Saradoc Brandybuck, her Paladin, and Samwise Gamgee. Where Frodo was she couldn't begin to guess, for he'd disappeared earlier immediately after the speeches given by those running for Mayor, and he hadn't bothered to come to the tea offered the Family Heads and their immediate families. She tapped her son on the arm—really, his shoulder was absurdly high since he'd returned from his travels, and he immediately turned to her attentively. "Yes, Mum?"

"I was wondering if there were any more of the walnut pastries left on any of the other tables," she said.

He half rose as he looked around, and smiled. "Oh, yes—over at the table where the Smallfoots were seated. Would you like one?"

"Oh, yes, dearling!"

"I'll go fetch the platter over," he said, straightening to his (rather alarming) full height.

She, however, grabbed his wrist and indicated he should sit again. "You don't have to go fetch it yourself. You are the Thain's son, after all. Just send Sam to bring it."

Pippin, however, was shaking his head. "Send Sam? Oh, I don't dare do any such thing—he's busy talking with the Thain, the Master, and the Mayor. Frodo would have my head. He didn't even allow me to order Sam about before we left the Shire, you know."

"And why would he do any such thing? Sam is Frodo's gardener, after all, and _you_are, as I pointed out, the Thain's son."

Pippin gave a snort. "The Thain's son, am I? Well, perhaps I am, as well as being a Captain of the Guard of the Citadel and a Knight of Gondor. But Sam is now _the_ Lord Perhael of all of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, and that outranks me by a long shot. In fact," he added as he again rose to his feet, "considering _who_ named him that, I suspect he may well outrank the King himself. If you'll excuse me, I'll be right back with those pastries…."


	17. End Game Strategies

_For Maeglin for her birthday._

End Game Strategies

"Do you believe that _he_ will send his forces our way? For word is that the orcs and trolls of the northern Misty Mountains mass about the Ford of the Bruinen, ready to fall upon Elrond's borders should _he_ regain his Ring and so the wards about Imladris fail; and it has ever been thus about the boundaries of the Golden Wood and Thranduil's realm!"

"It is not just Elves he threatens, as you well know, Galdor. Nay—Sauron wishes sway over all—all or nothing."

"So you believe we, too, will be besieged."

Círdan gave his famous smile, the smile of one who had lived through too many assaults and sieges in his long life, from the shadowed Hunter of the days before Days to Melkor's vast armies of twisted Maiar, Eldar, and Edain; from assaults by the Kinslayers to Sauron's goblins and wolfriders. "We have ever known little but siege, my friend. There is nothing new in that. But we will continue preparing our ships even as we sharpen our blades, and we shall twist as many bowstrings as lines. I fear we shall need to set both arrows and sails free to be borne by the winds of Manwë Súlimo ere the current conflict is decided."


	18. Tribute

_For Celeritas for her birthday. Sorry it's so late, but I promised myself I wouldn't write anything else until I had the last chapter of my Big Bang story finished!_

Tribute

The Queen's recognized unofficial handmaiden hurried up through the various levels of the city, easily making her way through the bustle of those who worked as servants who were heading for the homes where they worked, smiled after by Guardsmen who recognized her easily enough, eager to bring her newest acquisition to her Lady. How lucky she'd been to find it! She'd just turned that one last corner, and there it had been, obviously fresh off one of the ships lying out on the Harlond, quite the largest and most inviting of its kind she'd ever seen. And she'd just managed to get it—the perfect thing for her Lady, who after all was kindling.

How large it was—how fresh—how filled with nutrition! How pleased her Lady should be! A scramble through a shortcut, and an evasion of some child who'd even imagine that she would surrender her prize. No, only her beloved Lady would receive this!

At last—the ramp up to the highest level of the White City. Nearly there! How pleased her Lady would be! A swift whisk through the Court of Gathering and past the Memorial to those precious little ones her Lady honored so, under the boughs of the White Tree, and around the Citadel toward the back. Not for her the trouble of convincing the Guards at the front to open the doors for her this early in the morning. No, they'd only pretend not to see her, after all, or would tease her.

_"Oh, look! Did you see?"_

_ "My, what a huge one! She must have spent hours searching for it!"_

_ "Oh, no—I know we'll hear about this one!"_

_ "You'd think of taking that to her, would you?"_

She ignored them all. Around through the gardens—that was the ticket! And down this way—best ignore the guards at this door, too. Annoying, they were.

_"Oh, dear—I'm not certain that's the best thing this early in the morning. I don't believe she's even up yet."_

Well, of course her Lady wouldn't be up yet. She didn't _want_for her Lady to be up when she brought this one. She wanted it to be such a surprise!

Ah—at last—her entrance! Not for her such foolishness as doors and Guards. Up on the sill and over. Her acquisition wriggled in her grip, hoping she'd lose hold of it and allow it away. Oh, no, it wouldn't! It was for her Lady, and that was that! It had best realize just how fortunate it was to find itself laid—just there—right where her Lady would see it, as soon as she opened her eyes. One last shake, and it was ready, ready for her Lady to see. And she settled, so pleased, just waiting….

(I) (I) (I)

The King was at his toilet when he heard-

**_"Yawp!"_**

He was so startled he dropped his comb with a clatter and rushed to see what was the matter with his beloved. She was half-risen, leaning on one arm, her head over the side of the bed, scrabbling for the chamber pot in apparent desperation. He hurried to her side and removed the lid for her, held it for her with one hand while holding her beautiful hair out of the way with the other while she found herself seeking to empty an already largely empty stomach.

When she was done, he sat by her and held her to him. "I've not seen you become so ill in the morning before, _vanimelda_," he murmured as he stroked her forehead. "Is the child making you uncomfortable this morning?"

She pulled herself from him, shaking her head. "Don't blame this on the child," she said. "Blame _her!_" And she turned to cast a regal glare at Kitling, supposedly his cat, who now lay on his abandoned pillow, a most satisfied expression on her face as she purred loudly and kneaded at the fabric of the pillow slip as if she were most pleased with herself. Arwen brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. "Ever since we conceived this child she has barely left me alone, almost as if she feels responsible for me and the baby within. But I don't know how much more of _this_I can take!"

She moved slightly, and suddenly he could see. Lying between the pillows, its head on that his wife slept upon in such a manner she must have awakened nose to nose with it, lay the largest, fattest, healthiest looking, and sleekest ship's rat he'd ever seen, obviously just killed only moments before. He swallowed. "Sweet Valar!" he whispered in awe. "It's as big as she is, if not bigger! And she brought it to you?"

She nodded, obviously trying to keep from retching anew. "I am so glad she is pleased that I am with child," she said, "but why does she insist on trying to bring me breakfast in bed?"

He dissolved into laughter as he rose, and taking the poor creature by the tail between his fingertips he bore it out of the room.


	19. Birthday Gifts

_For SpeedyHobbit and Dawn Felagund for their birthdays, as well as three Hobbits I know!_

Birthday Gifts

Little Tolman Gamgee-Gardner brought his mother a beautiful bouquet for his first gift as a _faunt,_far lovelier and less crushed than such offerings usually were. Frodo smiled approvingly at his little brother's present to their mum. "I guess there is no question that he's the son of the most famous gardener in the entire Shire," he murmured into his older sister's ear. Elanor nodded, her heart twisting slightly.

For his father, Tolman produced a fine linen bag that Elanor had sewed for him, one that he'd filled with as many seeds of all kinds as he could find. Samwise laughed and picked him up to hold him in his arms. "How did you know the perfect thing for me?" he asked.

"But you likes pantin' things," the youngest of Sam and Rosie's children told him. "Seeds is t'pant, right?"

Sam examined the contents of the bag and saw that it contained its fair share of thistle fluff as well as celery seed and the small black peppering of poppy seeds taken from the rattling pods on the Hill. "I know the perfect place to plant these," he assured his son, and smiled as little Tolman's face glowed with pride and pleasure.

The child had been allowed to pick a single apple for each of his brothers and sisters, although he also gave each one either a flower or a leaf; and for their special guests who'd come all of the way from the King's own court he had equally special gifts—a green stone with an interesting shape that he presented to Legolas, and a small seedling ash tree for Gimli. When Elf and Dwarf looked questioningly at the child's father, Sam merely shrugged—who could foretell how so small a child's gifts might end up being bestowed, after all?

The luncheon was sumptuous, and as all were engaged in filling up the corners Gimli passed out the small gifts sent by King and Queen intended for the family as well as the _byrthing_, for in Gondor this day was celebrated as Ring-day, a special day to honor two other Hobbits who shared the same birthday as did Tolman. And for the _byrthing_himself there was a picture book prepared for him by the King's own daughter Melian.

"Ooh!" he said. He held it out to the Dwarf, asking him, "Wead it, peese!"

So it was that Gimli found himself sitting on the bench where Frodo Baggins had once sat reading aloud to his friend Sam, little Tolman on his lap, starting with, _"It did happen, one day safely long ago, that the esteemed Burglar Bilbo Baggins decided it was time for him to retire far away from the Shire, and left all his possessions (except for some things intended as gifts to his friends and relatives) to his beloved younger cousin Frodo, whom he'd adopted as his heir."_

The page held colorful paintings of Hobbits of all sizes smiling as they examined their gifts—except for three who were frowning as they each held up a pair of spoons. Uncle Merry, who was looking over Gimli's shoulder as he read, laughed aloud at that one. But the one Hobbit in the picture whose hair was as dark as the King's own held up a small gold ring, and although he had a smile, somehow he also looked somewhat worried. And watching over them all was the tall grey shape of the Wizard Gandalf.

And so the story unfolded of the four friends who'd left the Shire to keep it safe, taking with them the simple gold Ring that Bilbo had given to Frodo, and that Frodo in the end took on to Mordor to destroy It, accompanied ever by his friend and gardener. The story was far from complete, of course; certainly the grave injuries each of the Hobbits had suffered were rather glossed over. But there was no question that the younger fry were enthralled by the tale.

_"And so it is that in Gondor and Arnor September the twenty-second is celebrated as Ring-day, and all rejoice to know that this is the birthday shared by the Ring-finder and the Ring-bearer and the youngest child of Samwise Gamgee, the beloved friend and companion of Frodo Baggins, without whose help, love, and support Frodo could not have come to the Sammath Naur to the destruction of Sauron and all of his works," _Gimli finished up, and turned the book so all could see the children of Minas Tirith dancing around the Memorial to the four Hobbits without whose aid the world would surely have fallen into darkness.

Robin, who sat beside Gimli, reached up and gently touched the painting of the statue of the Ringbearer. "That's Uncle Frodo, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes," Gimli said, his voice perhaps a bit rougher than it usually was. "A fine person he was, too—among the very best anywhere. And there's your dad, and there are your Uncle Pippin and Uncle Merry."

But Tolman wanted to turn back to the picture of his father and Frodo climbing the sides of Mount Doom. He looked at it for a time, then asked, "Did Unca Fodo go back there, Da?"

"Go back? Oh, little Tom, I don't think that until he agreed to go over the Sea as he ever really left there. It cost him a lot, you see. But him's free of it now, and happy, and gladder than glad as you share his birthday, his and old Mr. Bilbo's." Sam's eyes were just a bit too bright, perhaps. "Well, it's time to put this away for now and perhaps have some of that cake as your Gammer Lily made you for your birthday."

As they were all enjoying the cake, Frodo-lad leaned over his little brother and asked quietly, "Tommy, why did you give the tree to Uncle Gimli and the stone to Uncle Legolas?"

Tolman looked up at him with that expression Frodo had become familiar with in his younger brothers and sisters, who all seemed to look up the same way when they felt the answer to a question was far too obvious to need answering, but they would answer it at least just this once to have it over with. "Well, Unca Leg'las is a wood-Elf, right? So him has lots and lots of trees. And Unca Gimli don't need more stones, does he?"

Frodo had to laugh as he lifted his baby brother into his arms and hugged him close. "Oh, you are so right!"

And as he laughed, he seemed to hear another silvery laugh beside him, and saw his Sam-dad turning his head to catch the eyes of his beloved friend.


	20. Giving Honor Due

_For Claudia and all others whose birthdays I'd not managed to honor. Please forgive me-it's been a difficult last few months._

Giving Honor Due

Old Gaffer Gamgee sat in the public room at the Green Dragon, a mug of their finest ale in between his hands as if it were warming them. Opposite him sat one of his great nephews from Tighfield, sent to Michel Delving to file sales agreements on a good deal of rope from Andy's ropewalk. Before he returned to the Northfarthing he'd stopped by the Cotton farm in Bywater ostensibly to visit kin there and to carry greetings, but in reality he'd wanted to hear firsthand what actually had happened back in November when cousin Sam and his Master and Frodo Baggins's kin returned from wherever it was they'd gone.

"And they were really gone for over a year?" he asked yet again.

"Haven't I told ye so at least four times?" asked the Gaffer. "Oh, it's gone they were, and more'n one was thinkin' them all dead. Did ye have them Big Men there in Tighfield, too?"

"We had two as visited the village a fair amount, but they couldn't do a good deal to us. It was them Gatherers and Sharers as give us all fits. They was stealin' ever'thin' as they could get their greedy hands on, and the early winter was hard on many. We did all we could to see as no one starved, ye must understand, until the wagons arrived from Scary with provisions. I'll tell ye this, no one was expectin' Yule to be anywheres near merry until them wagons arrived."

Hamfast nodded. "Them Gatherers and Sharers took almost all as we had. Me and Marigold, them emptied the hole, and moved us into that awful pile o' bricks them called a house over the other side o' the village. Awful place it was! And them dug out the old hole and ruined my taters!" The offense of the act of destroying his garden still stung. "But the Travellers—them is havin' the hole redug, them is, and I should be movin' home in a week or two, them tells me." He shook his head. "No Hobbit should ever find hisself havin' t'move out of a sound hole into a drafty house as is more drafts than house, ye unnerstand."

His great nephew indicated his appreciation for the sentiment. "So you's been stayin' with the Cottons?" he asked.

"What?" asked the Gaffer. "Cain't ye speak up none? Young folks today just keep mumblin'," he commented to the world at large.

The question was asked again, more slowly and distinctly, and the old Hobbit answered, "Yessir, we's been stayin' with Cousin Tom and Lily, me'n Marigold and Sam, and his Master, and Mr. Fredegar Bolger'n his sister as well. Can't rightly say why, but even though Bag End wasn't dug out whole as was Bagshot Row, still it's takin' far longer t'set it at rights than one'd think necessary. Them Big Men took mauls t'the stonework and threw knives'n axes at the walls, my Sam tells me. There was terrible damage inside, them all says. Mr. Frodo, just mention it t'the gentlehobbit and him goes all quiet'n pale, him does. Good thing as him's doin' ol' Flour Dumplin's job or him'd fret hisself to death, I'm thinkin'."

"And it's true as that Lotho Pimple's dead? Really dead, murdered by the Big Men?"

The Gaffer's face grew grim once he understood the question. "Oh, that him is. That Sharkey, curse his ugly face and worse disposition, him had Mr. Lotho killed. Bragged about it, him did! Them hasn't found the body yet, neither. That Sharkey was hintin' as his Worm-fellow might of et him. Oh, yes," he added with relish at the sight of the younger Hobbit's fascinated revulsion, "all tells me as him said so right out loud, there on the doorstep t'Bag End! And then, if'n ye can believe it, that Sharkey tried t'kill Mr. Frodo right then and there, right in front of ever'one! Ye should hear Mr. Ned Boffin and Mr. Griffo talkin' of it. Them was there t'see the whole thing, and them still can't believe what them saw. If'n Mr. Frodo'd not been a-wearin' old Mr. Bilbo's mail shirt as him brought back ages ago, him'd of been dead an' gone, too!"

"An' did the Hobbits do in that Sharkey?"

"No, twasn't Hobbits as did him in—twas that Worm-fellow, it was. Sharkey was provokin' him somethin' terrible, my Sam tells me, and that Worm-fellow, him just snapped and killed Sharkey. An' that's when Mr. Ned Boffin and two o' the Tooks as had their bows ready let go! That poor Worm-fellow fell dead on the steps, him did. Mr. Frodo, gentle soul as him is, still grieves. Says as the Worm didn't need t'die, as him was terrible provoked and didn't do no harm t'nobody as was there. Only if'n him _did _kill Mr. Lotho, I figgers as him had it comin'."

"One thing as I just don't unnerstand," the nephew said, "was why folks round heres didn't stand up to ol' Pimple t'begin with. It all could have been stopped from the beginnin' had those Hobbits round these parts just told him _No!_right aways!"

"You try tellin' someone _No!_ when him's got a passle of Big Men with knives and clubs a-loomin' over you," the Gaffer growled. He took a mouthful of ale, grimaced, and spat to one side. "You'd be talkin' out of the other side of yer mouth had you been here with all of the Chief's Big Men all round you, beatin' on those as tried sayin' _no_ an' threatenin' yer family," he muttered, shivering slightly. "My Daisy an' my May, them was plum terrified fer me an' Marigold, an' begged us not t' even try sayin' _no_. The Mayor tried sayin' _no_, an' look at where it led him! An' I seen Cap'n Freddy Bolger when them brought him out of the Lockholes, member."

The door to the Dragon opened, and a cold breeze blew through the common room. All turned to see who'd come in. There were a number of Hobbits, including Sam Gamgee, two of the Cotton lads, old Tom and his Lily, and a few Hobbits the nephew didn't recognize at all. One was taller than most Hobbits, and was far, far too thin for his build. There was a feeling to him as if he'd lost a good deal of substance, the Hobbit from Tighfield decided. By his side was a lass, one whose hair was shamefully short.

Then he realized that everyone in the common room was rising to his feet, including the Gaffer. Realizing his great nephew wasn't rising to the occasion, Hamfast leaned over and cuffed him on the shoulder. "Stand up!" he hissed. "That's Cap'n Freddy hisself, that is. Him's a hero—led those as sought to take back what was ours fer months, him did! Spent months in the Lockholes fer it, too. We rise to honor him—many's the hole as would be empty now hadn't him an' others not raided the Big Men's stores to get food fer them whose homes was emptied of ever'thin' as keeps body and soul together! Stand up, lad—ye'll not see many heroes here in the Shire, but yer seein' one today!"

And as those who'd accompanied Fredegar Bolger took their seats at a large table in the corner, someone began singing the lay of Captain Freddy, and how he'd popped the Pimple!


	21. Yuletide Truce

_Written for the LOTR Community Yule Fic Exchange. Written for Pearl Took._

Yuletide Truce

"Yule in the Shire!" Pippin exulted as they turned from the Road toward Tuckborough and the Great Smial. "I wasn't certain last winter that we'd ever see this again!"

Merry nodded his agreement, reaching forward to scratch Stybba's neck. "A year ago we were some days' walk from Rivendell, not certain if we'd even survive the journey we'd undertaken."

Pippin's expression grew more solemn. "That's true enough." He stretched in the saddle, and Jewel turned her head to consider him briefly before returning her attention to the track ahead. The younger Hobbit continued, "After seeing Frodo recover from such a terrible wound, I couldn't ignore the fact that we were all in grave danger."

"Didn't stop you from dropping a stone down that well, or from peering into that seeing stone," Merry noted dryly.

Pippin's mood lightened again. "Well, it appears that no matter how serious the quest, you can't take the innate foolishness out of a Took. I shan't fuss myself on those now, seeing that all turned out all right in the end. Better than all right—victorious!" He drummed his heels on Jewel's flanks, and she willingly quickened her pace and drew ahead of the other pony and rider.

"As if you weren't scared silly at the time," Merry muttered to himself, although with fondness. Pippin at least was still capable of being irrepressible, and for that he was very glad. He rejoiced that Pippin was in such good spirits today, what with the visit to the Great Smial and his family and all. Tomorrow, for Second Yule, they'd be heading to Bywater to spend most of the day with Frodo and Sam at the Cotton farm. Not even Uncle Paladin and Aunt Eglantine would deny Pippin that visit, he knew. Hopefully a single afternoon and evening in the company of his parents and their stubborn refusal to accept Pippin's stories of what they'd done for the past year would not be enough to cause his cousin undue distress.

They soon found themselves in the center of Tuckborough, and the denizens of the Leaping Hare crowded to the doors and windows to hail them as they rode by. Pippin waved back and returned cheerful answers to their questions, not that anyone could really make out what was being said by anyone else, what with all the competing songs from the inn's common room and all. And Merry was both relieved and a little sad that Pippin didn't suggest they stop in for a mug or two. Apparently the young Took had decided it would be best to get things over with as soon as possible.

They rode directly into the stable and saw the two ponies settled into their stalls, warming blankets belted over them and their mangers and water buckets full before they grabbed their saddlebags and headed into the Great Smial to face the Thain and Lady. They were met by servants who insisted on taking their things to their rooms, and were led by Posy to the Thain's private parlor where Pal and Lanti were awaiting them.

"You appear to have made good time from the Floating Log," Paladin said, hugging them both before turning the two younger Hobbits over to the attentions of Pippin's mother.

"Actually, we decided to camp out not that far from the Three-farthing Stone," Merry advised them. "The Floating Log was quite crowded when we stopped for late supper, and one could not hear oneself think while we were there. It was quite a relief to get out of the village and seek out a much quieter place to camp for the night."

"And why didn't you stop in and stay the night with some of the Boffins or such along the way?" Lanti demanded. "We have family ties with Hobbits all along the Road, after all."

"And such folks, in spite of the sharing out of what Lotho and Sharkey's people gathered to the Brockenbores, still would be hard put to deal with unexpected visitors," Pippin said, shaking his head. "Since their homes were easily accessible, they tended to be visited regularly by the gatherers and sharers, you know. And it's not as if we were unaccustomed to sleeping under the stars, after all."

Truly an understatement, Merry recognized. They'd done little but sleep under the stars for months, both on the journey east and south and on the way back as well. Really, they'd only spent about two and a half months in Minas Tirith in the guesthouse there, and two months in Rivendell before that, and but a fortnight in Rivendell during their return journey. He fixed his cousin's mother with a steady gaze to reinforce what Pippin had said, and gave an unconscious nod as he saw her blink uncomfortably. "Well," he said, "we're here now until first thing tomorrow morning."

"And I still can't think why you won't stay Second Yule as well," Lanti began, but stopped at a pointed glance from her husband. Apparently the two had spoken extensively of this beforehand and had agreed to display as little argument to Merry and Pippin as possible during their visit. A good thing, or the two of them might decide not to return to the Tooklands in the near future, and both of Pippin's parents were desperate to reassure themselves that neither Pippin nor Merry should disappear on them again. In spite of their unwillingness to believe what Pippin sought to tell them of the war, they did love their son deeply and had been worried sick during the time the Travelers had been gone from the Shire.

Elevenses were served, and they were joined by Pearl, Pimpernel, and Pervinca and their families. Pimmy and her husband Ferdibrand, who'd been blinded by kicks to the back of his head administered by Lotho's Big Men, they'd seen but recently, for the two of them had traveled to Buckland to attend Pippin's birthday party at Crickhollow a week ago. It had been a sore point for Eglantine that Peregrin had refused to celebrate his twenty-ninth birthday here, but he'd insisted on hosting his own party in Buckland as his mother had been planning his guest list and had intended to invite all of the youngest of his Took and Banks cousins, as if he were still a teen rather than someone who'd been treated as an adult for the past year or better. It wasn't that he didn't love his younger cousins, but he'd wanted to have mostly those who were in their thirties from all sides, not primarily those Tooks who weren't even twenty-five as yet! So his parents had not come to his birthday celebration, but his second sister and brother-in-love had.

Ferdibrand was asking after the Brandybucks, Oldbucks, Maggots, and Stockbrooks he'd visited with at the party, and described their brief stop at the Cotton farm in Bywater on the way back. "I must say," he commented, "that I've never seen Frodo so retiring and solemn. We had to almost pry any word he uttered out of him, it seemed."

"It's that way with him oftentimes since he woke in Ithilien," Pippin agreed. "He listens far more than he speaks any more."

"I don't understand just what you mean when you say he awoke in Ithilien," Pervinca said, and was distracted by young Piper seeking to sneak an extra jam tart off her plate. "We'll have none of that, nephew," she said, to which the child laughed merrily.

Pippin's face had lost much of its animation. "Frodo and Sam had become separated from the rest of us. Frodo tried to slip off by himself to finish his task, thinking it would keep us safer if he were to go on alone. Sam managed to keep up with him, but by the time the rest of the Fellowship realized what he'd done we were all rather badly scattered, and there was no way for us to go after him. Frodo and Sam succeeded in their part of the business, but were cut off from escape. Gandalf had to search for them, and apparently found them just in time. The two of them were unconscious when they were found, and Aragorn had to put them into a deep healing sleep for a fortnight. They were both in rather a bad way when Gandalf and the Eagles rescued them."

Pearl looked up sharply. There had been a time when they were younger when everyone had been certain she and Frodo would marry, and in spite of having thrown him over and married Isumbard instead she apparently still cared for his welfare. "Was he badly hurt?"

Merry answered her gently, "We were all rather badly hurt, Pearl. We've all recovered, of course, but Frodo particularly was badly scarred."

"I didn't see any scars on him," Paladin commented stubbornly, adding rather belatedly, "other than the finger being missing, that is."

Pippin's laugh was anything but merry. "Do you think, Da, that Frodo Baggins would allow anyone to see his scars? He even tries to hide the fact his finger is missing from us, and we of course know all about how he lost it."

"Then why don't you tell us?" asked Pervinca's husband, Maligar Bolger.

Merry gave his uncle and aunt a sideways look and said privately to Maligar, "It's not for lack of trying on Pippin's part, believe me!"

But Pippin was shaking his head, saying to the room at large, "No, I know the subject disturbs you, Mum and Da, so I'll not discuss it now, not on First Yule. Now, what did you get me?"

This was such a Pippinish question that all suddenly found their humor once more, and the awkward moment passed.

"The question is rather, what did _you_ get _anyone_?" Pearl demanded. "I don't see any sign indicating you two brought anything intended as gifts."

Ferdibrand laughed. "That's because their gifts have been here for two weeks, Pearl Took! They arrived with a wagonload of ale purchased from Bree."

Pippin smiled with satisfaction. "That ale is my gift to the whole of those in residence in the Great Smial. I'll have you know that Gandalf himself laid an enchantment of especial excellence on the ale brewed by the people of the Prancing Pony, and I thought everyone should enjoy the bounty of that spell tonight of all nights!"

"And you knew?" demanded Pearl's husband Isumbard of Ferdi.

Ferdi shrugged. "As I am the keeper of stores for the Thain, and as I _can_keep a secret, I was advised to be on the watch for the wagon when it arrived and to see to the careful storage of its contents. Oh, don't worry, Bard, Maligar—you two will get more than your fair share if I know you! When we're done with the meal I'll take these two off so they can see to the retrieval of the other items that came with it. I'll swear that my aide told me that there was a case, or perhaps he said two, from Dale as well!"

Pearl's two children and Piper all squealed with delight, and had to be reminded that gifts would be not be distributed until that evening at the earliest, and any complaining would only delay that desired activity.

Soon enough Pippin and Merry were accompanying Ferdibrand to the locked storage room where he'd had the contents of their wagon placed. "I was able to convince Strider to send most of what's there in a shipment of arms intended for the northern Rangers," Pippin confided. "I know he was a bit reluctant to take up room for my trifles in the supply wagons, until, that is, I told him that I'd purchased a number of bows and a goodly supply of arrows fit for them to add to the armory here. Your father should be very pleased with them, I'd think." Ferdi's father Ferdinand had served as the captain of the Tookland's archers for several decades. "They begin teaching the lads in Gondor how to use a bow when they're quite young, so there were a goodly number of bows and arrows suitable for Hobbits available in the marketplaces once the war was over, and they do appear to be quite good ones. I suspect that more than one boy who lived near the river had managed to kill an orc or two even before the city was laid under siege."

"And was being caught in a siege as terrible as the books say?" Ferdi asked as he found the proper key and fitted it into the lock.

"Worse," Pippin said grimly. "We were very lucky that it didn't last more than a few days, as I was told afterwards that when a city is held in siege for prolonged periods, pestilence, hunger, and thirst tend to become commonplace. Lord Denethor had prepared for such a possibility, and there were a fair amount of stores of grain, flour, and dried meats and fruits within the city walls. The problem was that most of the warehouses where it was stored were in the lower city, within the lowest two circles, and that was where the bulk of the damage was from what was thrown over the walls by the Enemy's catapults. They had some compound they put on balls of wood and wool that would burst into flame when it landed, and it set fire to a lot of structures. Putting out fires in such tight quarters is a serious business, I learned, for it can spread so quickly from one building to another, what with the houses and businesses oftentimes sharing walls with one another. And anyone who was hit by these balls was likely to die from the encounter."

Ferdi shuddered with revulsion at the thought of it all as he swung the door wide. "I'm glad I wasn't there. Did the two of you help fight the fires?"

"Merry wasn't there yet, for he followed after Gandalf and me, riding with the Rohirrim from Rohan to Minas Tirith. Gandalf went ahead to warn of an impending attack and took me with him."

"And what foolish thing had you done to require you going first?" Ferdi asked, leading the way into the storage room. "There's supposed to be a lamp just inside the door. You'll need to light it, I suspect."

"Ánd just why do you think I was in trouble at the time?" demanded Pippin while Merry got the lamp lit.

"Because I know you, Peregrin Took," Ferdi answered.

As the wick took, Merry grinned up at their cousin. "He'd just managed to convince the Enemy that he, Peregrin Took, had the weapon the Enemy was most seeking. He didn't, of course, but the Enemy didn't know that. Gandalf had to get him to relative safety, not that any of the surrounding lands were truly safe. But it worked to keep the Enemy distracted, trying to get to Minas Tirith to find out if Pippin had carried that weapon there before anyone could figure out how to control It to use It against him."

"Do you know where this weapon really was?" Ferdi asked, obviously intrigued.

"We didn't at the time, not for certain. We only knew It was on Its way to Mordor to be destroyed."

Ferdi had been feeling the barrels in a near corner of the storeroom, hoping to identify the former contents of Pippin's wagon, but stopped and straightened, turning to the others in dismay. "You said that the Enemy was the Lord of Mordor, didn't you? Then why send this weapon there? He could have stumbled across the ones trying to get it into the land and gotten it back, couldn't he?"

"Yes, which was why everything was done to draw his attention away from his own land in the end. But It could only be destroyed where It was made, and that was there in Mordor at the Mountain of Fire. Pippin's blunder actually helped the ones who were carrying It into Mordor, as did Aragorn directly challenging Sauron using the same device through which the Enemy had become aware of Pippin." Merry settled the mantle of the lamp into proper place and turned about. "Oh, there they are—the other corner to your left, Ferdi. I see the outline of the pony on the barrels there. And there's that large gift you bought for your dad there, too, Pip."

Soon Ferdi was helping to drag the actual gifts back toward the door. "You bought a saddle for your father, Pip? In Gondor?"

"Yes. I saw it in the marketplace in the Third Circle and knew it was perfect for him. And the figure you feel there on the stirrups and the pommel is a falcon!"

"What color is it?"

"The leather has been stained a dark green. And there's a headstall to match, again with the falcon worked into each cheek piece. And you should see the bolts of silk I bought for Mum—she'll look so beautiful in dresses made from them!"

"And which package is for me?"

"Merry's already fetched that out for me. You won't handle it until this evening."

Pippin and Merry took as much as they could carry to Pippin's quarters to prepare for the gifting in the early evening, and Ferdi went to get them help in transporting the larger items and to carry the barrels of ale to the dancing ground where the Yule bonfire would be lit. The two of them ate luncheon while they worked, and did not reappear until almost teatime.

"Are you avoiding us?" asked Eglantine, her tone slightly acid, as they entered the Thain's parlor.

Merry caught the flinch that Pippin couldn't completely hide. "We had a good number of presents to finish wrapping," he said in a voice that was just a touch too hearty. "I'm sorry, but I did want them to be just right for all of you."

"It's quite a change from the days when you just hastily put brown paper around whatever you were giving people and loosely tied twine about it. hoping it wouldn't come open before it got into the hands of whoever it was intended for," Pervinca noted.

Pippin's lips thinned. "I have grown up, in case you didn't notice," he said, doing his best to keep his tone even. "Strider and his people wrapped most of the items well, but I wanted to be certain that none of it was damaged in transit, after all. I must say that everything came through beautifully, but I'm afraid I'm not quite as handy at rewrapping some items as was whoever prepared them for shipment."

"Too bad Frodo wasn't here to help you. He always has his presents so beautifully wrapped." Pearl sounded a bit wistful.

"It's a bit harder for him now," Merry pointed out.

Pearl winced. "Oh, yes—his finger."

"Yes, his finger," Pippin said. "Although he is able to do most things fairly easily any more. He worked a good deal on his writing and drawing while we were in Minas Tirith, and purchased a new set of knives that fit his hand particularly well while we were there. I made certain that those were tucked into the bundle that Strider sent for us—I suspect they were very expensive."

"He needed new knives?"

"Well, remember that he was still just recovering when we were there, and most knives in the outer world are intended for the hands of Big Folk. And it wasn't until Master Elrond arrived in Minas Tirith that anyone seemed able to ease his hand. The muscles would spasm at odd times, and he found it often very painful. So he went down to the marketplace in the Fourth Circle where many of the best artisans of the City sell their wares in search of a good set that was comfortable for him to use. He'd intended to leave them behind, and that would have been quite a waste, after all."

"I wish we'd been able to convince him to come here for Yule," Pimpernel commented.

Merry shook his head. "He wouldn't do so right now, not that Sam would countenance him riding cross country in the snow anyway. With the ride back and forth to Michel Delving each week, Frodo's getting all the riding he needs, I suspect. He needs a few days of simple quiet and comfort, and he's more likely to get that on the Cottons' farm than he would here or in Buckland."

"I agree," Isumbard commented, surprising them all. "He's been so diligent in seeing to it that every document forwarded to the Council Hole is properly reviewed that he is often exhausted once we convince him to leave the Mayor's office. If he were to come here he'd have all the faunts hanging on his coat, begging for stories, and would have to try to beg off smoking with the gentlehobbits as gracefully as possible without causing offense, and would be fending off all of the lasses of marriageable age—and their mothers. No, he deserves his days of rest."

Maligar appeared shocked. "Frodo doesn't smoke any more?"

"Says that the healers told him he was not to start again—too harsh for his lungs."

Pippin nodded his agreement. "We had to all smoke downwind of him so it wouldn't even blow in his face. Aragorn wouldn't allow him, Sam, or me to smoke at first while we were recovering, and Frodo's not to do it at all. It has to do with all the ash and smoke he and Sam were forced to breathe while they were in Mordor."

The others were exchanging glances when the knock came at the door, and Posy entered with the tea things.

"Thank you so, Posy," Eglantine said. "We will serve ourselves."

Nodding, the personal maid to the Thain and his Lady set the cart near Eglantine's chair and left them, softly closing the door behind her. Soon all were served with tongue and pickle on bread rolls, boiled eggs, and apple tarts along with steaming cups of Eglantine's favorite blend of tea for winter.

"You're not bolting your food!" Pervinca noted, watching her younger brother with surprise.

"If you'd spent as much time as we did in the King's court, you wouldn't be so surprised," Merry said. "We all learned a good deal of proper protocol and manners while we were in Gondor, after all."

"Not that Frodo needed any lessoning in it," Pippin added, once his mouth was empty again. "Bilbo and his Aunt Dora saw that he was properly trained in etiquette."

Pearl's daughter Pansy asked, "Where are your presents now, Uncle Pippin?"

"Ferdi had some of the servants carry them down to the Great Hall and put them with the rest," Pippin explained. "And I certainly hope you like what I bought for you."

"And mine are there, too," Merry said. "And you are not to go down there and prod at them, trying to guess what's in them."

"I'm too big to do that!" the lass responded primly.

"I'm not!" her younger brother Isumbrand insisted.

"And that's why you'll be going with the other youngsters and the lessons master once tea is finished," his mother said. "I rather wish Frodo had come—his stories would keep the lot of them entranced until the Yule feast is ready."

"Perhaps next year," Pippin said vaguely. "Please pass the salt cellar, Pimmie."

As the evening sky burned increasingly with stars, Pippin gamely worked to remain as civil as possible to his parents and Pervinca, all of whom tended to let slip occasional jibes about those who hadn't been home last year and how much Pippin must have forgotten during his absence from the Tooklands. By the time all were gathering in the Great Hall for the Yule feast and the exchange of gifts he was looking decidedly frazzled. "I'm so glad," he murmured to Merry, "that we're off early tomorrow for Bywater. I love them dearly, but if I hear one more word about how I deprived the family and the Great Smial of the joy of celebrating my birthday with me two years in a row I swear I will scream and run out to the stables to fetch Jewel and head back for the White City!"

Merry gave a slight nod, eyeing his female Took relatives and his uncle warily.

Merry and Pippin's practice of facing west briefly before sitting down to eat was watched with puzzlement by many of the residents of the Great Smial, and with a degree of disapproving forbearance by his parents. Once the dishes were uncovered, however, all appeared to forget the oddity in the Travelers' behavior as attention focused on the meal. Soon all were laughing at Pippin's sallies as his natural good spirits returned. "It's good to have a proper Yule again this year after the Troubles last year," old Tobibold Took commented expansively over his goblet of wine. "Not as you two was knowin' any want," he added, giving Merry and Pippin a meaningful glance, "what with all your time in Kings' halls and all."

"Actually, last Yule we were far from any halls of any kind," Pippin answered him. "We were walking through a particularly cold stretch of moor with not enough trees to offer us much in the way of firewood, if I recall correctly, although finally we came across a small valley with a wide stream at the bottom of it where at last there were enough trees to offer us some cover. Merry had managed to bring down some hares with stones, and it turned out Master Elrond had actually sent a joint for us to cook for that night. And Bilbo had given Frodo a supply of dried mushrooms he'd gathered in Rivendell to add to the feast. And I do believe we also had some boiled sweets and a whole apple for each of us, and three for Sam's Bill. That pony doted so on Sam, and on Frodo as well."

"It was a good meal, at least," Merry agreed. "But we didn't get to anything like Kings' halls until late February."

"Why didn't you ride?" asked Hildebrand.

"We were trying to pass unnoticed," Merry explained. "A cavalcade of horses and ponies would have drawn attention from the very ones we didn't wish to have know we were moving at all."

"Where were you heading?" asked Rosamunda Bolger, who was staying in the Great Smial with her husband until their own smial was restored—Lotho's Big Men had driven the Bolgers out of their hole and had done a good deal of damage, seeking to find any hidden storage holes there might be behind the paneling and plastered walls of Budge Hall.

"South and east toward the Great River and beyond," Pippin said. "We had to do our best to see the Enemy's greatest weapon destroyed so that the war could be halted. Had the Enemy found us along the way it would have meant the end of all that is pleasant in this world."

"And what do Hobbits know of weapons?" demanded one of the Took healers.

Merry and Pippin both shuddered as Pippin answered, "We came to know far more about such things than we felt comfortable with, I assure you. We were fighting a war out there, you know."

The talk grew more solemn at that, and Paladin gave his son a look of quiet disapproval. Pippin sighed and did his best to ignore the resumed tension, but it was a losing proposition.

Once the meal was over, a Hobbit from each family unit went to the piles of gifts ranged around the room to fetch gifts for their own family, and Pippin went to fetch those gifts intended for the Thain, his wife, children, and their spouses and children. The younger children were seated on the floor, each surrounded by their gifts, and allowed to open their presents with as little aid as was necessary, and soon wrappings were lying everywhere.

Pippin kept bringing presents, starting with those offered by Pearl and Isumbard, then those by Pimpernel and Ferdibrand, then those by Pervinca and Maligar, then those by Paladin and Eglantine. "What's the problem?" Pervinca finally asked. "Are you ashamed of those gifts you chose?"

It was one jibe too many, and Pippin sighed and straightened. "Merry, will you fill in for me, please? I need to visit the privy."

Merry turned on Vinca with disgust as Pippin quitted the room. "Can't you see that he's wanting for his gifts to be special? Why do you have to keep prodding at him so?" So saying, he deliberately chose out those he'd brought, and all had to admit they were particularly nice ones.

At last there were only those gifts chosen by Pippin left, and as that individual had not returned to the Great Hall, Merry began with those intended for Isumbrand, Pansy, and Piper. Pansy's eyes grew large as she unwrapped a particularly beautiful doll, carefully carved of wood and beautifully painted. A second parcel for Pansy held clothing for the doll, each garment a work of art in itself. For Piper there was a set of wooden soldiers dressed in the silver and sable of Gondor. Isumbard received a lovely pony crafted of leather, with real horsehair for the mane and tail. "Oh, look—here's the saddle and bridle and everything!" the young lad said, pleased beyond measure by his gift. There were wonderful wooden canisters for Aunt Jade, who loved baking, and a beautiful stein of crystal for her husband. Cousins Rosamunda and Odovacar received glass candlesticks that would be beautiful on their dining room dresser, once they were able to return to Budge Hall once more; Ferdi received a silver striker set that was exquisitely decorated with raised flowers; and the jewelry intended for Pearl, Pimmy, and Vinca evoked ahs of wonder.

At last there were but a few presents left, and most of the rest of those who'd attended the feast were watching with interest. Merry looked at his uncle. "Your gift is too big to bring to you at the table—you'll need to go to it."

So saying, he took the Thain by the hand and led him to one of the large packages that ranged along the wall. Paladin unwrapped the blankets with which it was wrapped, and shook his head with wonder. "Why, these are saddle blankets!"

"Indeed," Merry said. "And wrapped in them is-"

Pal stopped, his eyes as wide as Pansy's as he examined the magnificent saddle that lay before him. He looked in surprise up to meet Merry's gaze. "Did he choose this himself?" he asked.

"Yes, he did. He especially chose it for the falcons worked into all of the tack. He hoped you'd always think of him when you rode out."

"Who paid for all of this?" Eglantine asked. "This King of yours?"

Merry's fists tightened with frustration. "Pippin is a member of the King's own Guard, Aunt Lanti, and he receives an excellent wage for the service he offers. Plus, all who are known to have killed trolls and the larger creatures that threatened the army both on the Field of the Pelennor and before the Black Gate received a special reward for their courage. Pippin earned the coin for all of this fairly, and at the risk of his life, I'll have you know. We keep telling you—he is a hero out there, beyond the Bounds of the Shire!"

And when Eglantine found herself the possessor of several bolts of particularly fine cloth of silk and fine-spun cotton, she couldn't find words to express just how overwhelmed she was by the beauty of the fabrics she'd received.

Pippin was found outside, helping to put the final touches on the great stack for the bonfire. "I'm sorry I didn't come back," he said when the family crowded around him. "They needed some help lifting logs onto the pile, and seeing I'm now taller than anyone else, Beligard insisted I help. I do hope you like your gifts."

Pippin didn't crowd in as he'd always done before to take one of the first turns at pulling the fire drill, and once the pile was finally alight, he stayed well back from the blaze. "I don't understand," Pervinca said in softer tones to Merry. "Usually Da is having to hold Peregrin back when he wants to be one of the first to leap over the coals. What happened?"

"He saw some horrible things," Merry said only loudly enough for the immediate family to hear. "He's not afraid of fire, but he couldn't abide even a camp fire for the first part of our return journey. This bonfire is too large for him to bear right now. It may take some years before he'll try leaping over the flames again. He's not as careless as he once was."

"If he's afraid of being burned," began Paladin, but Merry interrupted him.

"No, he wasn't burned, but he saw at least one person burn to death, and it was a great shock. He can't stand the smell of burned meat, either, you'll find."

It was something to think about.

All noted that Pippin was far less giddy than he'd been before his journey outside the Shire, and most approved of this change. But Pimmy sighed. "It's not fair that he should have to be so grown up so fast," she said, watching her brother standing back, listening to the older stable Hobbits talking among themselves.

"As Frodo has commented often enough, life has never been particularly fair, so there's no point in complaining about how unfair it is," Merry said dryly.

Vinca sighed, and went to her brother's side. Merry couldn't tell what she was saying, but apparently she apologized for her behavior earlier, for Pippin's face brightened and he pulled her into an embrace. The others followed her, and now they were thanking him for their gifts, and with each honest word of praise Pippin smiled the more.

Merry smiled in sheer relief. At least the magic of Yule was helping thaw them toward Pippin, and that was, after all, as good a beginning toward Pippin feeling at home again as they could hope for. Now, if only they'd work on appreciating just what wonders Sam and Frodo had accomplished….


	22. Renewal and Reawakenings

_My Easter Gift to you all!_

Renewal and Reawakening

"How many sheds does that make?" Nick Cotton asked Sancho Proudfoot as they loaded the last detritus of the latest atrocity to be removed from Bag End's gardens into one of Sancho's wagons and secured the load.

"It's the ninth as we've taken down," Sancho said, rubbing at chilled fingers. "And I think as there's at least six more to go."

"At the very least," agreed Nick with a glance over his shoulder and up the steps to Bag End, the bulk of the hill sharp-edged against the chilly blue of a midwinter sky. "I don't know as what Sam's goin' t'do, the shape as the gardens is in. Him was so shocked when them come here, lookin' for ol' Pimple."

Sancho's expression was uncharacteristically grim. "They was all upset, and why not? Atween what Lotho done t'the Row and what that Sharkey and his Big Men done t'Bag End isself, t'wasn't nigh anythin' as it was afore they left."

"The gardens is a travesty, and that's a fact," said Nick. He gave the load of timber an appraising look. "Where's this lot t'go?" he asked.

"Over t'the old vineyard," Sancho answered. "That's where I've been takin' most of what's been pulled off'n here, once as it's been emptied out of what's been found stored in it, of course. We found our parlor settle and the kitchen table from our hole in this one, as well as most of the stonework from the parlor fireplace."

"Think as there's enough sound timber t'be found in all this t'help rebuild the winepress there?" Nick asked.

"They're hopin' as it might. What with all I've carted over there so far, they have a fair amount t'choose from. Although," he added, indicating those crowded about the fallen oak down in the Party Field at the foot of the Hill, "I suspect as those will provide the wood as is best needed for it."

Nick considered the distant Hobbits. "Don't recognize any of them."

Sancho answered, "Sawyers from over near the Woody End, or so they said when them arrived this mornin'. Goin' to deal with the Party Tree and the roof tree from atop the Hill. Some of the wood'll most like end up bein' used to patch up damage inside Bag End, I'm thinkin', and much will probably be used in rebuildin' the press as Lotho had burnt t'cinders, and to provide barrels for the vintner. Old Winyards will be offerin' excellent wine once more, it seems. Might take a year or two t'see all put right with it, but it seems Cousin Frodo and Sam Gamgee's out t'rebuild most of what Lotho and that Sharkey destroyed. Our place is already almost finished—we should be back in Number Five soon enough, me'n'Geli and the childern. My da's right surprised at how the Travelers are thinkin' first of those as lost homes because of the Troubles."

Sancho sighed, and turned to his patient pony, who stood between the traces with a blanket strapped to its back, the steam from its breath forming small, quickly dissipating clouds. "Well," he said as he moved to climb up onto the wagon seat, "we'd best be off if'n I expect to return home afore midnight. Any word on whether old Missus Lobelia will be returnin' here to Hobbiton?"

Nick shook his head. "From what I heard, she's decided t'give Bag End back to Mr. Frodo—says as she can't live where her son was murdered. Can you believe it, that a Hobbit of the Shire would actually end up bein' killed dead in what was now his own home?"

Sancho agreed that this seemed beyond imagining, and settled himself onto the bench. "Hup!" he said to his pony, who shivered slightly before stepping out, apparently glad to be moving again. "Too cold for this one t'be a-standin' about all still," he said over his shoulder, and drove down the Lane, turning to pass through the main part of the village toward the Baggins holding that had once housed the richest vineyard in the Shire.

(I) (I) (I)

The weather was chill, but the earth began to warm as the Sun's light fell on it throughout the lengthening days. Roots that had begun to wither away while a shed loomed over them gathered moisture from dew and the timely rains, and began to reach out, nursing the green shoots that would rise from them. Bulbs that had begun to shrivel took new heart as the Sun again warmed their resting places, and when at last the time was right, they sent up new leaves and stalks. Shrubs and bushes that had begun to waste away now began to bud out instead.

Life began anew in the gardens that had been ravaged by thoughtless Big Men and a maddened Wizard, in spite of the year of blatant neglect and abuse.

And when on April eighth, a year after two gravely injured Hobbits had awakened in Ithilien to find the world renewed about them due to their wearisome labors, those two now came to walk together in the renewed gardens of Bag End, and at their coming the flowers opened in gladness, welcoming the returned heroes with their own awakening.

"I swear, Mr. Frodo—I've had little enough time t'do more'n stir up the ground a bit, and perhaps pull a few weeds. I've not had time t'plant anythin' new to replace what was truly gone. And none of these was bloomin' yesterday." Sam shook his head in the wonder of it all.

"I suspect they're only glad to see you back again, knowing that you'll see to it that they are all properly taken care of once more. Look there—the forsythia is truly glorious, and I swear the narcissus blooms are especially bright! And there's even crocus blooming! A bit late for them, I fear, but how beautiful they are! And the daffodils and hyacinth are truly beautiful!"

"And look there, there under your window, Master-there was an especial ugly shed there. But the Elven lilies as old Mr. Bilbo planted there—if'n they ain't growing up, happy as can be! That Sharkey, or Saruman or whatever his right name was—he couldn't destroy the gardens after all!"

And there was some additional proper color to the face of Frodo Baggins, seeing all beginning to come right here, here in the gardens of his own home.


	23. Summons Offered

_For Dawn Felagund, in thanks for her tireless work on B2MEM._

Summons Offered

Maglor watched the _Perian_ standing at the aft rail of the retreating ship with a growing sense of outrage. _What right have you, a mere mortal, to bear the Light of a Silmaril?_

Did he see a note of defiance in those weary, wounded eyes? Certainly he was surprised when he sensed a response offered via _osanwë_. _And why do I not have the right to carry what was gifted to me by your own cousin? Did not Lúthien the Fair and Beren One-hand between them win the Silmaril from Morgoth's own crown and carry it away? Was it not given by them to Elú Thingol as the bride-price for his daughter, and through him did it not descend to the keeping of Elwing, who in turn surrendered it to her husband to aid him in his quest? Does its Light not blaze in the heavens as the highest symbol of holy Hope?_

_ But the Silmaril was the creation of my atar._

_ Perhaps that was true of the Silmaril itself, but not the Light that it bears. Lo, your father's creation blazes there, in the heavens, where it has dwelt for two ages of the Sun. I bear not the gem itself, but merely a reflection of the Light that fills it._

_ But you are flawed…._

_ No more so than are you._

He whose hand was long ago burned by the Silmaril he'd taken into his own keeping but had cast away into the depths of the Sea looked upon the one whose finger had been bitten from his hand, in emulation of the sacrifice of Beren of his hand to Carcaroth, but by one who'd desired the symbol of not Light but instead the destructive Darkness that had bounded it, and bowed his head.

After a moment of mutual grief, the other sought to comfort him. _Only one Silmaril remains where it might be seen, there in the heavens, above and beyond the reach of us both. I bear but the Light caught in its reflection in water. Had I known you would lay claim to it, perhaps I might have surrendered it to you. But now I can only hold it up to restore hope to those I love past bearing whom I've been forced to leave behind. Let them imagine that it shows that my strength endures, that I will survive and perhaps return in time to full health, spirit and body. But this I have been assured—that I am as much a Child of Ilúvatar as are you, and I, too, can reach for healing._ For a moment the communication paused, and he found himself straining to resume eye contact with this strange Ring-bearer. Then one last burst of communion: _I've heard the waves calling me for most of the past year and a half, and now at last, perhaps too late, even, I've answered them. Follow after! For I sense that they have been calling for you to return home, too. Follow after as you can. Let go of the Oath and follow after. They await you, those who love you._

The darkness fell more deeply as the last remnant of Arien's chariot passed below the horizon, and within that growing darkness he saw the Light of the Silmaril twice, once above him, and once reflected in the waters gathered into the Firth of Lhûn, marking the passage of another grey ship from Mithlond that had weighed anchor and now sought out the waters of its new home far to the West, there where he still believed he could not come, bound as he was to an oath that apparently could not now be fulfilled, as no Silmaril or reflection of it remained within the Mortal Lands to recover.

Standing on the high place on which he'd stood to watch the sailing of the Ring-bearers, Maglor sang, and wept.


	24. Warmed by the Glow of Stars

_Written for Imhiriel, Jay of Lasgalen, and Aruthir for their birthdays-a bit late, I recognize!_

Warmed by the Glow of Stars

She'd seen many a beautiful sight in her life—snow on the peaks of the mountains beyond Edoras, colts running alongside their dams across the fields of Rohan in the late spring, the greening of trees at the foot of the mountains in the distance. But now she was seeing new beauties as she looked across the River at the distant blue-green blur of Ithilien, lying as it did before the darkness of the Mountains of Shadow.

And then he was there beside her, smiling deeply at her with his calm, clear grey eyes. "Captain Elfhelm tells me it is your birthday, beloved," he murmurs into her ear. "I can give you nothing better than my vow of love for you always. And if you will have me, I tell you this—if my Lord King gives us leave, I shall build a home for us there, in what was known of old as the Garden of Gondor. Certainly with you beside me it shall become that again, now that the Shadow is departed away forever!"

So saying, he draws the blue mantle more closely about her, and she feels as if the stars with which it is embroidered are singing within her heart!


	25. Not Just her Little Lad any More

_For RabidSamFan for her birthday._

Not Just her Little Lad any More

Rosamunda Bolger looked up as one of the resident Tooks—she found she couldn't begin to remember all their names!—showed her son into the private parlor accorded to herself and Odovacar during their stay in the Great Smial. Odi was out with Paladin Took, taking a survey of the farms that most immediately served the needs of the place as all looked toward the first crop since the ending of the Troubles. She had been wishing he'd not left after all, for she found herself feeling very much odd Hobbit out, surrounded by so very many Tooks. This in mind, she felt a profound relief to see her son enter the chamber, followed immediately by an equal amount of concern as she considered Freddy's current physical state. He looked so—small! Oh, he'd not lost any height, thank the stars; but he was nowhere as—substantial—as he'd always been. She could almost imagine that it was his cousin Frodo Baggins standing there before her, save for the slight auburn tinge to the much lighter brown hair. One thing was apparent—Frodo must have lent Fredegar some clothing, for although the garments appeared familiar, she knew for a certainty none of it had come from his own wardrobe.

"Here ye be," the Took assured Freddy with a crinkled smile.

"And I do thank you, Beligard," Freddy returned. "I doubt I could have found it on my own. I've never had the head for direction that Frodo and Merry have always shown within the Great Smial."

"I'm not surprised, Mr. Freddy. Well, there's yer mother awaitin' for ye. And I'll be seein' ye again, more likely'n not, afore I must go out on my next round on the borders. Cousin Pippin, he's determined as no more Big Folk enter into the Shire to cause no more trouble." With that he gave a bow to each of them and withdrew, closing the door after himself.

"You know him, dear?" asked Rosamunda, setting aside her knitting and rising.

Freddy smiled. "Hello, Mother dearest. Beligard? Oh, yes, I know him—he's been a Bounder for some years. Not from here in the Great Smial itself, actually—lived outside Whitwell back when Paladin was still farming there. That's why he tends to sound provincial, I suppose. And how are you and Father faring, here amidst the Tooks?"

"They've been treating us very well, I must admit. But I'll be so relieved to be back in Budge Hall again. But they tell us again that we must wait, that there's more damage even than they'd thought the last time. Oh, Freddy, when will it ever be put properly right?"

"When will what be put properly right—Budge Hall or the Shire in general? According to the reports Frodo has passed on to me, it should only be a fortnight more before the final repairs are finished at home. At least I know the two of you are far more comfortably situated here while the smial is put back in order than you were in that storage hole Lotho had you herded into."

Rosamunda shuddered delicately, putting the back of her wrist to her forehead. "Oh, my dear, dear child, but you cannot imagine how horrible it was! No pump, no cupboards, having to use an outside privy-"

There was something unfathomable in Freddy's eyes as he looked at her, somehow unbelieving. "It must have been terrible for you, Mother," he said. Was there somehow a trace of irony in his tone, she wondered?

"Oh, but it was indeed terrible, Dumpling," she said, invoking his childhood dear-name. She didn't quite notice the grimace of distaste he showed. "But that is enough about me. You are here at last! Will you be able to stay?"

"I will remain overnight, but will be going to Budgeford tomorrow to see to the state of things and to report back to Frodo. Sam is doing a wonderful job at managing the restoration of the homes, woods, orchards, and gardens; but Frodo trusts me to give him a better idea as to how the village as a whole has come through things, and what kinds of help people might need to see their businesses and livelihoods put back into order."

She blinked, not having thought of such things. "And where is Estella?" she asked. "She said she would be nursing you, which was why she didn't stay here when she left that dreary farm."

"She and Rosie and Marigold are busy with Rosie's wedding dress. Rosie Cotton, that is. Rosie and Sam are to be married on the first of May, you understand, so there isn't a good deal of time to make ready."

"Will they be marrying at the Cottons' farm?" she asked.

"No, they're to be married in the gardens of Bag End, with Frodo saying the words."

She blinked again. "Frodo? But why Frodo? Isn't Griffo Boffin the village head in Hobbiton?"

"But Frodo is the deputy Mayor, Mother, and Sam's friend. He's asked Frodo especially to say the words."

Again she was taken by surprise. "Well, it is very gracious for Frodo to say the words for a mere gardener," she began.

Freddy's eyebrows rose. "A mere gardener? And how is it that Sam Gamgee is to be characterized as a mere gardener? Haven't you heard any details of what the four of them accomplished out there? Why, Frodo wouldn't be alive today if he'd not had Sam as his companion, you know."

She stared at him in astonishment! "But that's what he's been for years—Frodo's gardener!"

"Well, if he should continue to do the work of a gardener, it shall be solely because that is his pleasure, not because he has to do so in order to provide for himself or his family," Freddy said shortly. "Sam isn't forced to work any more."

"Why? Did the four of them find another fabulous treasure outside the Shire?" she asked, her imagination suddenly piqued.

"A treasure? Not unless you consider helping the King to return to be finding a treasure. No, Frodo insists that if Bilbo's quest was to help regain a treasure, his was to deliberately lose one."

Rosamunda had no idea as to what that meant, much less how she ought to respond to such a comment. "Then if there was no treasure, how is it that Samwise Gamgee is now to be a gentlehobbit of means?"

Freddy shook his head and laid his hand on her shoulder. "Listen, Mummy," he explained. "The four of them, Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin, accomplished marvelous things out there to the preservation of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, although it cost them all dearly. All of them have recovered from terrible wounds that almost killed them. And I mean it that Frodo wouldn't have survived if not for Sam Gamgee. Neither talks freely about it, you must understand, for that part of their journey wasn't particularly pleasant. But they did meet the Man who was intended to become King, and helped him achieve his throne. He has dealt well with all of them, and indeed they are honored by all of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth. So, Sam now has achieved the means to purchase land of his own, should he so wish, although Frodo has invited him and Rosie to join him living in Bag End, as if Sam were his brother."

"And they shall be doing for him, then?" She couldn't think further than that.

Freddy sighed, allowing his hands to fall to his sides. "If that is how you choose to name it, I suppose," he said.

She was immediately concerned. "Are you certain you are quite recovered, Dumpling? You sound so tired. I cannot wait to take you home and see you fed up once more and looking again a proper Hobbit."

"You'd best think otherwise," he said, falling into a nearby chair. "I've been told quite firmly that most definitely I am _not_to gain much more weight than I now have, or it would further endanger my health."

"Nonsense! Why, you are so thin that you appear almost sickly!"

"Then it's a good thing you didn't see me when they first brought me out of the Lockholes," he said, reaching over to pour himself a glass of apple cider from the jug on the table. "I certainly didn't recognize myself the first time I saw myself in the looking glass. I've gained a good deal of weight back since then."

She could not imagine that. "But you are so thin! Why, I'm certain that I could put my arms both all about your waist now and clasp my hands together!"

"Which is what the healers tell me is to be desired, Mother," he replied, lifting the glass to drink from it. After he'd taken a sip, he set the glass back on the table and looked up at her. "I almost starved to death, Mother, and was quite ill when they brought me to the Cottons' farm. Folco couldn't believe it when he saw me, and Frodo has been very careful of me as well. He's learned a good deal about how to care for one who has been deprived of good food for quite a while, and has done his best to see to it that my diet has been carefully managed that it not make things worse rather than better."

"And since when has Frodo Baggins studied the ways of healing?" she asked bitterly. "Never did a day's worth of useful work in his life, merely busying himself with copying and bookbinding and other silly things of that sort. Nothing important!"

Freddy's face paled, and then flushed. "Don't say such things, Mother," he said. "Frodo knows the value of work—few better. He's helped keep Bag End, has helped with the gardens and orchards, has done his best to see to it that both his family of name and his tenants are well cared for, and has always pitched in to help whoever might need it throughout the region of the Hill. And if you don't think that learning things is important, what does that say for you? But, if Frodo's learned about healing, it's because it's been forced upon him by what he's been through. Since he was rescued from the ruins of the Mountain he's been under the care of the best healers in all of Middle Earth, including the King himself, I understand. He, Sam, Merry, and Pippin—they've all had to learn to take care of themselves and one another in the wake of what they went through. And the healers insist that the manner in which he told others I was to be fed once I was brought out of the Lockholes was precisely right—many small meals of easily digested food at first throughout the day, with the size of the meals slowly increased as I proved able to keep them down, and the number reduced as slowly."

"Small meals? No wonder you've lost so much weight! You need substantial feeding to return to your rightful size, my lad!"

"And had they given me large meals from the beginning it could well have killed me, for I could not have kept them down, and my heart could not have stood the strain of losing what I'd just eaten." He looked at her with haunted eyes. "Don't you understand, Mum—they were deliberately starving all of us, and particularly me. It was our punishment for trying to keep others from starving! We had such good harvests no one should have gone without over the winter. But Lotho and his Big Men, they wanted to starve us all—to reduce the Hobbits of the Shire to begging them for what little food they'd choose to give us!" He shuddered, and covered his eyes. "I lost my weight whilst within the Lockholes, not since. But Lotho intended me especially to starve to death, and apparently that Sharkey encouraged him to it!"

She ignored him. "We'll get you back to Budge Hall and start feeding you properly—you see if we don't!"

He shook his head as his hand dropped into his lap. "I told you—the healers have said that I mustn't put back on all the weight, that doing so could kill me."

She raised her chin defiantly. "Nonsense! We'll talk with Seemor about it. You know that he will support what I say."

"Yes, Cousin Seemor will support what you say, but it's only because he knows you won't listen to good sense when he gives it."

"What an unkind thing to say, Fredegar Bolger!"

He snorted. "Unkind? Possibly, but true, and you know it. Cousin Seemor knows where the butter for his bread comes from, and that it does no good at all to seek to contradict you in any manner. So, he will nod and tell me to listen to my mother, and that will be that, as that's all he's said for years. Or have you forgotten when I was a young lad and having those pains in my chest how he tried suggesting that you stop feeding me rich brown cakes all of the time and encourage me to play at roopie once or twice a week? You had such an attack of the vapors that he never sought to contradict you again!"

She sat down slowly, pressing her hands to her breast. "So unkind!" she repeated. "You don't have to be so unkind!"

"And you don't have to be so melodramatic!" he snapped.

"When your father hears about this-"

"And what's he going to be able to do, do you think? I'm of age, after all, and certainly not a child any more! And I have my own income, as I invested the money Grandmother left me properly, and I have shares in at least six farms."

"But as long as you live under our roof-"

"But I've not lived under your roof for how long now? Since I joined the Rebels at least, and I was barely home before that more than a month at a time for the last few years!"

The two of them were glaring daggers at one another. At last he continued, "Perhaps it is indeed time I lived on my own, in my own home. I will look into it when I return to Budgeford tomorrow. Perhaps Uncle Alfengard's place would do. I certainly spent enough time there when I was a lad, after all, and I've always felt comfortable there."

"It's all Frodo's fault!" she suddenly hissed, her voice now low and shorn of its former quavering tone. "Encouraging you to question the wisdom of your parents!"

"Is it wisdom to insist I gain back weight that the healers tell me could put a serious strain upon my heart?"

She chose to ignore that question, continuing to attack Frodo's character. "He's proved as mad as old Bilbo ever was! I must suppose that Lobelia was right after all! Celebrating Bilbo's birthday all those years, and Bilbo dead and gone…."

"There's no question Bilbo's been gone from the Shire since the Party, but he's far from dead, apparently. All of them say he's quite intent on passing up his grandfather's age, in fact." At her disbelieving look he explained, "He lives in Rivendell, and has ever since he left Hobbiton and the Shire. The Elves treat Bilbo with respect, and honor his sagacity, even. So much for Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and her poison, although even she's had a decided change of heart since she came out of the Lockholes. Yes, Mother dear, the rumors were true. The Big Men took her to Michel Delving, too, her and her umbrella, and undoubtedly on Sharkey's orders, and not long after that Sharkey had Lotho murdered."

He picked up his glass and drank more of his cider, leaving her to stew on that news. As he put the mug back on the table again, now empty, he said, "As for Frodo, he remains the most responsible individual I've ever known. "

"But he left the Shire!"

"And if he hadn't, there would have been worse than Sharkey here. Think of it, Mother—the Shire overrun by those Black Riders who attacked Crickhollow!" He was shivering, and his face went decidedly pale. "You can't imagine how terrible they were," he whispered. "Even the Lockholes were better than them!"

Rosamunda's mouth worked a bit as she examined her son's face. At last her own face crumpled. "I wish none of this had happened," she said, pulling out her handkerchief and weeping into it. "Everything's gone so wrong!"

He sighed as he looked again into her eyes, and his own again had a haunted expression. "Yes, everything went wrong, and was going that way before Frodo left Bag End, but none of it was his fault. None of us had any idea that Lotho was buying up the mills, inns, and leaf plantations as he was. None of us realized he was stealing loads of provender and sending them off southward, out of the Shire, as he was doing. None of us realized that the increased number of questionable Big Men passing along the Road weren't going through the Shire but were beginning to gather into gangs on farms that he owned, readying themselves to become his private army. None of us knew that Lotho and that cousin Timono of his were so strongly under the influence of a rogue Wizard who so hated and envied Gandalf he'd do anything to trouble the people Gandalf so honored. And yes, Gandalf honored us Hobbits! He respected us, perhaps far beyond our deserving, based on his own knowledge of what a few of our people have done for the betterment of all throughout the history of the Third Age.

"Gandalf chose Bilbo to go along with those Dwarves, and if he'd not done so, things could have gone considerably worse than they did. Because Bilbo was along, _he_ was the one who found the Ring rather than a goblin, who undoubtedly could have been moved to send it either to the Dark Lord or to this Sharkey down where he was living in the Gap of Rohan, or so they tell me. And had either one of _those_got hold of It, that would have been the end of about everything good in the world, much less the Shire.

"Bilbo left It to Frodo, and because Frodo was about the best Hobbit ever born, It couldn't do much at all to harm us Hobbits, much less anything else. And when it was the right time for it, Gandalf realized just what Ring It was and convinced Frodo to take It away as he did. I saw those Black Riders and felt how awful they were, and other than that Bounder that was killed near the Brandywine Bridge, I was about the only one to experience the horror they could let loose. If Frodo hadn't left the Shire when he did, the Riders would most likely have remained here to take vengeance on every Hobbit living for the Ring having been kept here at all. You hate what happened? It's likely that it would have been far, far worse had Frodo stayed and been captured and the Black Riders were able to take It to their dread Master! You think that Sauron and Mordor were only things told of in the darker fireside tales? Well, Frodo Baggins, Samwise Gamgee, Meriadoc Brandybuck, and Peregrin Took can—and _will_—tell you differently, if they can be moved to talk about the worst parts of their adventure."

He leaned closer and whispered, "Frodo and Sam went there—went to Mordor, Mother! They crept through that land, hiding from the Eye and from sight of the Enemy's creatures. They, too, almost starved to death. They, too, almost died of hunger and thirst—and fear! And because they remained faithful and endured, all of us were saved, and the four of them were able to come home again, and embolden us to drive out the Big Men. Mordor fell because of Frodo Baggins and Sam Gamgee! Merry Brandybuck helped destroy the chieftain of the Black Riders, and Peregrin Took not only faced the will of Sauron and didn't break down and tell him everything, but he killed a troll, all by himself! Do you wonder that they weren't afraid of a few Big Men with clubs and knives?"

He straightened, and his voice became more distant. "And now the four of them are seeing to it that the Shire is again put to rights, and you want to blame Frodo for me not wanting to pretend nothing is changed from before they left? Don't be absurd!"

"But we wouldn't have been driven out of Budge Hall if he'd not sold Bag End to Lotho Sackville-Baggins!"

"And Frodo advised Father not to accept a loan from Lotho to begin with, didn't he? Had Dad listened to Frodo and read that loan agreement more closely, he'd have realized from the beginning that Lotho was already setting things up to give him a legal pretense to take over our home and, indeed, the whole Shire! And I, too, told Dad not to accept that loan!"

She shook her head and turned her face aside, wringing her damp handkerchief between her hands. "But you couldn't have known," she said softly.

"Nor did I—I just opposed anything Lotho suggested on principle, I admit."

"But he was doing so well for himself. Odi was convinced that he could also profit hugely should he follow Lotho's advice!"

"And where did it lead? Estella forced into hiding, you and Father driven into a storage hole to live, and me to the Rebels and eventually the Lockholes. At least Pal and Sara didn't fall to Lotho's tricks, and were able to protect most of their own folks during the Troubles."

He sighed. "I'm told that Father is off about the Tooklands with the Thain, so unless they return soon I won't be able to see him. I'll not be staying the night after all. Instead, I'll set off tonight and stay at an inn so as to arrive in Budgeford early in the morning. And I will be setting up my own home. I love you and Father more than I can say, but I won't be browbeaten into eating more than is good for me, just so that things can appear to be as if the Troubles hadn't happened. They did, and I won't pretend otherwise. I think I'm a better person because they did, you see. At least I was the opposite of those Gatherers and Sharers!"

So saying he leaned forward and kissed her cheek before rising to leave the room.

She looked after him, and felt her heart ache. He wasn't her little lad any more. She wasn't certain what he'd become, but she had to admit that he was right about that last observation.


	26. Arming the King

_For Linda Hoyland and Dawn Felagund for their birthdays._

Arming the King

Faramir looked at his older cousin Húrin, who had returned from the morning briefing of the Captains, as it was formally called, in the tents of the northern Dúnedain down upon the Pelennor. Although the word that ran through the streets of Minas Tirith was that the King had come again, still Aragorn son of Arathorn refused to accept that title as yet, citing the fact that the war against Mordor and its allies was not yet won, and that Sauron was not yet defeated.

"Yet it will be he who will lead our army to the Black Gate," the Warden of the Keys stated, "and he will need proper armor. He has a mail shirt given him in Rohan that is serviceable enough, I suppose, but otherwise he could be any mercenary from among the Lost who'd ever sold his sword to Gondor's lords. And few among the lords of Gondor will take note of his authority in those riding leathers he wears, so worn and stained are they. If we would have him taken seriously, he must be armed as befits the King I deem he is."

"They are in such bad condition?" asked Faramir.

Húrin gave a wry shrug. "I am certain that at one time they were in keeping with his station as the Lord of the northern Dúnedain. But now—he has worn them for so long that they cannot be adequately cleaned any more. The Master of the Guild of Leather Workers shuddered to look at them, and I have seen more than one of those who take part in the morning briefings turn up his nose at the sight of them." He leaned forward confidingly and murmured in a lower voice, "I am willing to wager that they are the same he had with him when he served our grandfather ere you were born."

Faramir's eyebrows rose in interest before he continued, "What of his boots? His clothing? His weapons?"

"All of those are adequate at this time. The Master of Leather Workers took his boots the other day and had them cleaned, the soles checked and the heels replaced, and was highly impressed by their quality. He says they were obviously new when his company began their journey. The sheath for his sword is very new and is a thing of great beauty and worth. His bow, quiver, daggers, boot knife, and sword are in excellent condition, and have all been well maintained. He sports new clothing that he says were mostly gifts received from various of his hosts along the way, and some of which were brought to him by those he speaks of as his Elven brothers."

"Can he ride? How is he mounted?"

"He rides very well indeed, and he came riding his own horse brought from the northern lands by those who came to join him in Rohan. It is well suited to him, and is obviously of good bloodlines. The tack is excellent, although perhaps plain to our eyes."

"He will require a standard under which he might fight."

Húrin shook his head. "You need not worry for that. Did no one tell you that the first sign we had that the ships we saw arriving did not bear the Corsairs of Umbar was when the Standard of Elendil was unfurled upon the flagship of the fleet that the south wind sped up the river to the Harlond? His close kinsman was his standard bearer, I am told, and took his deathblow upon the battlefield from an Easterling intent on bringing it low. And Lord Aragorn wore what must be the Elendilmir upon his brow as he led his men in their charge upon the foe. Elendil's diadem, sword, and banner—no one doubted that day that it was Elendil's heir who had come to succor the city."

"Then he simply needs armor proper to his station," Faramir summarized.

"Proper to his station and to his stature," his older cousin agreed. "We will have to search hard for armor that will fit him, for he is the tallest Man I have ever seen—near to seven feet, I am certain."

"I wonder what became of the armor that must have been made for him when he served Gondor as Thorongil?" Faramir asked.

Húrin shrugged. "I know not. He did not return to Minas Tirith after the victory in Umbar, having become separated from his men save for his aide. We were told he was sorely wounded, so it is likely that the armor was discarded that he might be properly treated."

"Not that my father would have sought to see it preserved for him had it been found," Faramir sighed. "His envy of the respect granted Captain Thorongil was always obvious to me, remembering his expression any time anyone mentioned Thorongil's name when I was a boy." He shook his head. "Well, go and search the armories and the mail shed. I suspect that among the armor crafted for past Stewards and Kings you will find at least one set that will fit him."

(I) (I) (I)

It was some hours later that a knock at his door alerted Faramir to the return of his older cousin. The current Steward of Gondor had been able to spend much of the day seated in a chair within his room in the Houses of Healing, and he had only just been helped back into his bed once more, where he'd thought to sleep at least briefly until his supper should be brought to him. "Enter, Húrin," he called.

The expression on the older Man's face was uncertain, and Faramir was afraid that it might signal lack of success in his task. However, the Warden of the Keys forestalled Faramir's disappointment with the comment, "I have managed to find one set of armor that might do, Cousin. However, your father would be most upset should I seek to array his old rival within it."

"And what Steward was as tall as our new King is?" asked Faramir.

But Húrin was already shaking his head. "Oh, no Steward of Gondor ever wore this set of armor, or at least not in sight of anyone else. No, it was the set of armor said to have been worn by Meneldil when he was crowned sole King of Gondor by his Uncle Isildur."

Faramir straightened in surprise. "Meneldil's armor? But it is said in the annals of the city that he wore that set of armor but the one time, and that it has not been worn since that day! Would not the leather be withered by now?"

"I have checked it. Those who care for the armor oil the leather twice a year, but they say that the leather has always been supple and remained whole, save for that of the gauntlet for the right hand. They suggest that rather than the gauntlets a pair of battle gloves be worn instead, along with vambraces to protect the wrists. They do not know by what means the leather used in most of the armor was processed, but that used in the right gauntlet was not done in the same manner, leading them to believe that the right gauntlet was damaged at one point, perhaps exposed to a fire at some time, and thus the leather needed to be replaced, and that utilised at that time was not of the quality of the original leather used. The leather padding inside the helmet also perished, and was replaced some twelve years ago on your father's orders."

Faramir thought on this for some minutes. "It is interesting to know that the armor remains usable to this day," he commented. "You have the right of it, for indeed my father would not have approved of this armor being worn by anyone, and particularly not by the one he always felt had supplanted him in his own father's heart. However, he is not now Steward of Gondor—I am. And there is a nicety to the thing to think that the first sole King of Gondor's armor should be worn now by he who will reunite the two realms under one rule. See to it that it is delivered to Lord Aragorn's tent as soon as possible so that he might see to any adjustments necessary before the army sets off."

(I) (I) (I)

Aragorn, Halbarad's two brothers, and the sons of Elrond examined the armor that Lord Húrin had caused to be carried down to Aragorn's tent. "This is what they would have you wear?" asked Halladan. "It is certainly royal enough in appearance!"

"I know," said Aragorn. "Denethor would be twisting in his grave in distress should he be aware that his nephew and son had chosen to send this to me to wear in the coming campaign."

"And why?" Elladan asked. "If they have armor at hand that will fit your height and that is appropriate to your rank as the heir to Isildur, then why should he have denied it to you?"

Aragorn sighed. "To see me wearing the armor in which it is said that Meneldil was invested as King of Gondor by his uncle would have been seen as too great an honor by Denethor." He examined the arm guards. "So, the gauntlets are seen as unusable, are they? I would prefer to wear gloves in any case—they are less restrictive, in my experience."

"Let us see it upon you," Hardorn directed. "I would be assured that it even fits you halfway well before we send words of thanks to the Steward."

Gandalf arrived by the time they were strapping the grieves onto Aragorn's legs. "And what is this?" he asked.

"Húrin chose this armor for me to wear as I lead the army to Mordor to engage Sauron's attention," Aragorn said. "I almost fit it, I find. Although it must have been that Meneldil was taller than his statues had led me to believe, for this was made for someone taller even than I."

"And why did he not send down the armor made for you to wear when you served here?" demanded Halladan.

Hardorn gave a snort of derision. "I sincerely doubt that said armor survived more than a few days after word came that Captain Thorongil was giving over his commission," he said wryly from where he knelt behind his cousin. "You left it where? In the small house you kept in the Fourth Circle?"

"I knew that it should get in my way in the campaign on the harbor of Umbar," Aragorn agreed. "Can you imagine what would have happened had I tried escaping as I did by diving into the water while wearing that? Can that strap be lowered some, Hardorn? And if this one could be let out perhaps a bit…." He fumbled at his left shoulder.

Hardorn adjusted the strap for the grieve as desired. "Better? Good." As he rose to his feet he continued to his brother, "If you believe that Denethor would have allowed Captain Thorongil's armor to be kept against a possible return of said worthy to Gondor's service, you are much mistaken. It would quickly have been reduced to its component pieces and said pieces would have been relegated to the armories as swiftly as possible. He would do nothing to make your possible return any the easier, my Lord Cousin," he added to Aragorn.

Gandalf blew out a breath of frustration. "Alas that this is true," he admitted. "But there is nothing to be done at this time that can make things right between Aragorn and Denethor. Perhaps in Mandos Denethor will learn better."

Aragorn looked down at the image of the White Tree on the breastplate he wore. "It is to be hoped," he murmured sadly. "I had hoped that this time we might speak civilly and put the memories of rivalry behind us." He raised his head and straightened. "And how does it look upon me?" he asked as Elrohir stepped away from adjusting the shoulder piece.

Gandalf gave a slow but fully satisfied smile. "You look every inch the King you were born to be, my friend."

"It reminds me somewhat of _Ada's _armor," Elladan said.

"Not that he has worn it all that often during our lifetime," Elrohir added.

"It is surprisingly comfortable," Aragorn said, lifting an arm. He suddenly drew his sword and took a stance, then smiled as he sheathed Andúril once more. "There is no impedance to my movements," he reported with satisfaction, twisting first to one side and then the other. "Whoever the armorer was who crafted this, he was truly a master."

Gandalf's expression was distant for a moment, and then it changed, appearing rather amused. "You will have to tell him that one day," he said.

"When we meet one another in Námo's halls?" Aragorn hazarded, checking to see whether he could easily reach his dagger.

"And where are Legolas and Gimli Gloin's son?" Elladan asked.

"They are with Merry and Pippin in the gardens of the Houses of Healing," Gandalf told them. "Merry appears to be recovering swiftly enough, but still finds the memory of the Black Breath lingering at times. He will be lonely when we leave the city."

Elrohir had gone behind the partition screening his mortal brother's cot, and returned with a formal mantle of dark grey bordered by silver. "Let us see this arrayed about your shoulders, Estel," he said. Once it was properly fastened and its folds arranged, all smiled. "Yes. With the Elendilmir upon your brow, you will find none will question your lineage or your right to lead the army."

"I shall wear Boromir's vambraces," Aragorn said. "I promised him that I should lead our people to victory, and I would have his own love for Gondor represented before all."

Gandalf nodded. "Most appropriate, and I am certain that he approves, my friend. But now we must rest, for the morrow will be very busy as all prepare for the march the day after."

Aragorn nodded, and reached for the clasp that fastened the breastplate over the underlying silvered mail shirt he wore.

(I) (I) (I)

Faramir stood before the hurdle set up in the gap where the gates to the White City no longer stood, watching the approach of the procession that brought Aragorn son of Arathorn to claim the Crown of Gondor. How he had dreamed of this moment when he was a child and a youth—the return of the King, the Crown restored to the lineage of Elendil, the rule of the Sea Kings of old renewed within Middle Earth. "Oh, Father," he whispered, "if you could only have seen this day, and how all rejoice. I suspect even you would have been moved to rejoice also, in spite of all."

How tall the coming King was as he strode forward, a full head taller than all save for the three Elves who accompanied him. As for his companions-

Even the four Hobbits appeared veritable princes, he thought. Accompanied by the young new King of Rohan, by a Dwarvish lord and an Elven prince, the regal sons of Elrond Peredhel, the proud figures of his kinsmen from the north, and the shining form of Gandalf the White, Aragorn still was the one who caught the attention of all, whose face was marked with experience, wisdom, and authority. The White Tree shone upon his breast, beneath the green fire of the Elessar stone he also wore. The image he wore showed white blossoms, and suddenly Faramir knew that one day the living tree before the Citadel should do so as well.

Then the King lifted one hand briefly, and Faramir found himself looking upon the vambraces that encircled the Man's wrists, saw them and recognized them. "Boromir!" he murmured. "Those were Boromir's!" Tears of relief sprang to Faramir's eyes. "Yes, you knew him—traveled with him—prepared his body for his last journey, even. I rejoice that you bring this much of him back home this day!"

_"He's a fine one, you will find, little brother,"_ he seemed to hear murmured privately. _"Oh, we've had our differences from time to time, but he is a sword brother I was proud to fight alongside. You will truly like him, Faramir. And he will guard our people and our land well. I am glad to be able to commend you to his friendship."_

Yes, a guardian worthy of the realm of Gondor, of Gondor and more! Clad in ancient armor, proven to be willing to spend himself for the safety of all, open to worthy counsel, ready to renew more than just this land….

Faramir smiled tremulously and signaled for those who carried the ancient chest of _lebethron_ to step forward. Yes, he was ready to give his loyalty and his worship to the King Returned.

-~0~-

_There are references here to my story "Forging for Protection and Defense," in which it is revealed that the armor worn by Meneldil at his coronation was first crafted within Imladris for Meneldil's grandfather as High King of the West._


	27. Dark for Dark Business

_Written for the LOTR Community The Hobbit 75th Anniversary Celebration. For SpeedyHobbit for her birthday. Beta by RiverOtter, with my profound thanks._

_"Dark for dark business. There are many hours before dawn." "An Unexpected Party," The Hobbit._

Dark for Dark Business

Hamfast Gamgee sat at one of the tables near the stack of ale barrels, a large mug recently filled from one of them in his hand, watching the festivities about him with eyes somewhat brightened by the ample food and drink he'd enjoyed. In all of his seventy-five years he didn't think he'd seen any party quite like this one! Ah, but it had been quite the day, he had to admit to himself. Old Mr. Bilbo was eleventy-one now. Just imagine—eleventy-one years old, not that he looked a day past sixty in the Gaffer's eyes. Hard to imagine that his Master had come of age before Hamfast himself had gotten out of nappies, not even considered a proper faunt yet!

Somehow the thought of that fact gave the old fellow pause. Gaffer Gamgee gave a shiver and took an ample swallow from his mug. Perhaps it would be better to put that observation behind him—well behind him!

Well, today young Master Frodo came of age himself, and that was a good thing. Hamfast's own son would serve a good Master, one who was thoughtful, considerate, and perhaps one of the most responsible of Hobbits the Gaffer had seen in a month of Sundays. Sam would certainly never have to even consider working for those awful Sackville-Bagginses, thank the stars! No one should ever have to consider doing _that_! And tonight his Sam was sitting in the family pavilion, seeing to the serving of the meal and keeping an eye on things. _The family Steward, _old Mr. Bilbo had called him. Something mighty important, to be the Steward, or so the Gaffer understood it to be. An honor, a great honor. And his Sam had it all written down, what to do, when to do it. He'd be telling other Hobbits what to do and how to do it so that the Masters' family was all fed and kept happy. Hamfast shook his head at the thought of it. If only his Bell could have been there to see their Sam all dressed up almost as fine as the Young Master himself, ordering others in the serving of the family supper.

And tonight the Gamgees didn't have to serve nobody themselves—they were honored guests, they were, just as much so as old Flourdumpling himself, or any Brandybuck or Took! He smiled up at the Boffin lass who came by with a pitcher of ale and topped up his drink, and accepted another pheasant pasty from Mags Broadbelt from the Ivy Bush. Nobody in the Shire made a better pheasant pasty than Missus Mags, and that was certain!

He sipped at the ale, and thought of trying some of the wine as well. He'd never been much for wine, that being considered more proper for them of the gentry, after all. But tonight he felt almost like one of the gentry himself, and he just might try some on principle. Certainly both old Mr. Bilbo and young Master Frodo appeared to enjoy it well enough. Might it make him try something unusual, something like quoting poetry as those two tended to do? He laughed to himself at the thought of it. But it would be acceptable to try wine tonight of all nights, on this day when he was the guest rather than the employee. He took a bite of his pasty and waved a hand at the young fellow who walked about with a pitcher of wine and a tray of goblets. "Let me try some o' that," he said.

Ah, he wasn't certain about the taste, although he figured he could, given time, grow accustomed to it. Still, the wine made him feel particularly warm inside, warm and expansive. Yes, he could come to appreciate wine as much as a good beer or fine ale! The warmth offered by the wine reminded him, somehow, of the fireworks he'd seen earlier in the evening.

Now, those fireworks—they were truly something! They were something to remember for years, something to tell his grandchildren about. True, his Hamson's two children had seen them, too, although they weren't more than a faunt and a bairn in arms; but so far there were no others, and he was certain Half, Daisy, May, Sam, and Goldy would all have quite the passle of little ones amongst them one day, and he would be able describe those glorious fireworks for them at length. He imagined just how wide their eyes would be when he described how that dragon firework had burst into sparkles over the Water with such a flash and a bang-

_Flash! Bang!_

Everyone in the Party Field jumped, their eyes swiveling to the pavilion where Bilbo and Frodo's chosen relatives had gathered for the family feast, all aware that that final _flash_ and _bang _had happened there within the tent, apparently right under the boughs of the great oak that grew there. From within the tent they heard a growing babble of voices in an increasing tide of dismay and shock. There were cries of fear and of outrage to be heard, and strident demands for explanations.

The tent flaps at one of the side entrances blew outward, apparently driven by the winds of anger that had begun to blow within the canvas walls. The Gaffer's fascinated eyes were fixed upon it with astonishment, wondering just what kind of trick his Master might have played on his kindred. From the sounds of it, most of them didn't find it particularly funny, although it must have been eminently diverting.

"Ah, Hamfast, my good fellow—there you are!"

Old Mr. Bilbo's voice could be heard beside him, although how the old Hobbit might have managed to get behind him and creep upon him unseen Hamfast Gamgee couldn't begin to imagine.

Bilbo's voice continued, "Well, that's given them all something to remember me by if anything could. Well, as the Dwarves said so long ago, _Dark for dark business. There are many hours before dawn._ I must away and quickly, for I intend to be halfway to Buckland before the Sun comes up!"

The Gaffer looked over, hoping to catch his Master's eyes, but realized that he could see no one there. Was this what wine did—make one seem to hear the voices of those who weren't really there after all? He seemed to feel a pat on his shoulder such as Mr. Bilbo had been wont to give him from time to time, and then there was nothing there at all, no more feeling of the presence of Bilbo Baggins.

Almost immediately the main flaps of the family tent parted as the first guests came stomping out led by Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, and Hamfast could see her stowing some of the pewter forks and spoons used at the dinner into her reticule as she complained shrilly to her husband and lout of a son as to the insult given them all by Bilbo Baggins that night. She was followed closely by some of the more snooty of the Sackvilles and Bracegirdles, and then the Thain and his party. Probably a good thing that Missus Lalia hadn't come with her son that evening, the Gaffer thought wryly. Whatever his Master had done, it had them right upset! He looked up toward the door of Bag End and could see that Wizard Gandalf opening it and going inside while the wicket gate at the bottom of the stairs to the gardens surrounding Bag End swung shut with a decided _bang _of its own.

Hamfast sat, nursing that glass of wine and nibbling at the last of his pasty and some bread and cheese for quite some time until the bulk of the guests from the family feast came out calling for their carriages or ponies. At last Sam appeared looking tired and annoyed.

"What happened in there?" the Gaffer asked.

"You don't really want to know, Dad," Sam assured him. "Old Mr. Bilbo, he's really gone and done it this time, and I doubt as his family will forgive him ever for it, not that he cares none. He's had his joke and is gone now, and they're still tryin' t' demand explanations from my Mister Frodo, who ain't got none as they want to hear." The younger Gamgee looked about the party grounds. "Dark for dark business, I suppose, as Mr. Bilbo used to say. I'd say as it's time t' put them barrows as was hired into service, considerin' as how many Hobbits I see here and there under the tables, sleepin' it off. Well, I'd best be to it, then. It's part of what stewards is supposed to see to, after all. Night, Dad."

Gaffer Gamgee set his glass and plate neatly on the table where he'd been sitting, and stretched the stiffness out of his joints as best he could before making his way across to the base of the Hill and his own yellow door to Number Three.

There was a cart now at the upper lane near the low place in the hedge at the back of the gardens to Bag End. It was the cart them Dwarves had come in. Must be getting ready to leave now—they'd said as they'd not be lingering beyond the Party, after all. Hamfast hoped that his Master had said goodbye to them. Apparently Dwarves didn't mind traveling after dark much more than Mr. Bilbo himself.

As he closed the gate to his small front garden behind him, Hamfast stopped briefly to rub at his back. It was time, he decided, to retire and give the gardens of Bag End over completely—or almost completely—to his Sam. Sam was the true gardener in the family, after all, the one as truly loved flowers as much as the Gaffer himself loved taters and other root vegetables. Yes, let Sam take over the gardens, with his old dad to oversee things as needed.

Eleventy-one years! And still didn't look a day past sixty! If only he, Hamfast Gamgee, felt half as spry as appeared Mr. Bilbo Baggins, Esquire!


	28. New Perspective

_For Claudia for her birthday._

New Perspective

Derunol had lain in the bed for some days, feeling totally useless, not knowing what he could look forward to with but one leg now. One leg and one ear. Would his Gilien marry him now, with him unable to walk and looking so—so unnatural? He was maimed! He would most likely spend the rest of his life in a bed such as this, needing to be waited upon hand and foot! What kind of life could that be? He'd best send a letter to Gilien and let her know that he was freeing her of their betrothal. After all, if he truly loved her, he should let her go free rather than dooming her to a life of drudgery with someone who could not hope to be able to provide for her….

_Gilien sat beneath the twisted cherry tree in her garden, reading the letter he'd sent and wiping at her eyes. And then Eldhrim came to comfort her, and she turned to him and wept upon his shoulder, and he held her, stroking her hair and soothing her. And then she turned her heart where she'd turned her head, as the two of them kissed…._

"No!" he cried out aloud, startling himself awake from this terrible dream!

"Is there anything I might be able to do for you?" asked a voice. Derunol turned his head, and saw that a curly-haired youth had paused by his bed, one perhaps no older than Derunol himself, who had known nineteen summers—or, perhaps he should count his years in winters, he thought bleakly.

"What?" Derunol asked.

"I was passing and heard you call out in your dreams. If there is anything I might do to help you, you have only to ask. I'm gladly at your service," the stranger said, and so saying, he pulled over a stool and sat upon it by Derunol's bed, "There's a pitcher and a mug here—would you like me to pour you some water?"

"Yes, please," Derunol answered. As the stranger poured out a mugful of water for him he said, "You weren't hurt, then?"

The other looked up to meet his eyes. "Hurt? Oh, I didn't fight in the battle before the Black Gate, although I did there before the gates to the White City. I almost died there, they tell me, although much of what happened after my sword burned away I don't properly remember."

"Your sword burned away?" Derunol couldn't help but feel skeptical at this statement.

"Oh, it did. Strider told us before that all blades perish that might pierce—pierce _him_, and that was how he knew that Frodo hadn't hurt him before, there at Weathertop. Frodo's sword was whole, you see—all he'd done was to slash up the thing's cloak a bit. I just wish that that was all the vile creature had done to Frodo, really. I dropped my sword after I stabbed him behind the knee, and then Dernhelm—the _Lady_, well she lopped off his head as neat as neat, as Sam would say. Not that anyone could see it, of course—but his crown thing went rolling off across the ground like a wheel. And her sword burned, too, and she fell down in a swoon as if she were dead. I was there when the old King died, and he never even knew she was there by him, and had fallen protecting him from the Black Rider and that lizard-thing he had been flying around on.

"After that I'm afraid I don't remember very much. I know I wandered off, and I remember Pippin finding me, and me thinking I was already dead and all, but not much more than that and—and evil dreams until Strider called me back. When I remember how suspicious we all were, back there in Bree, when Strider suddenly was convincing Frodo to take him on as our guide to Rivendell, I just cringe!"

Suddenly what this one had said earlier made terrible sense, as Derunol remembered the shrieks from the Nazgûl as they'd swept overhead, and as their ghastly steeds would swoop down and grasp at the soldiers manning the walls and the trebuchets and fling them to their deaths in the lower city. His mouth worked for a moment before he could manage to get the words out. "You stabbed one of the Nazgûl?"

"Yes, not that I even thought much about how impossible it seemed at the time. Oh, by the way, I've not yet introduced myself—Meriadoc Brandybuck, at the service of you and your family. But you can call me Merry—everyone does, after all. Did you fight inside the city?"

Derunol shook his head. "Oh, I wasn't fighting there—everyone said that I was too young, so I was helping as I could. I carried arrows to the archers on the third level. My brother would only allow me do that."

"But he didn't stop you from coming here to fight."

Derunol could feel the bitterness and pain filling him again. "He can't. He died in the fires down in the First Circle. I couldn't allow his death to go unavenged."

Merry gave a nod of understanding. "Oh, I know how that goes. We did much the same when we realized that the orcs were trying to kill Boromir, Pippin and I did. We suddenly found our courage, not that we could do much against so many. One of the foul things managed to hit me on the forehead with the hilt of its sword, and when I came to again, Pippin and I were prisoners, and the orcs were crowing about how clever they were to have managed to kill the great warrior."

Derunol went still. "Boromir? Do you mean Lord Boromir, Lord Denethor's son?"

Merry nodded. "Yes, he came south with us from Rivendell to the hill above the waterfall, and that was where Saruman's orcs attacked us. They managed to kill Boromir, and Pippin and I were afraid that they might have killed everyone else, too. We were sure we must be the only ones left, only everyone else managed to escape, apparently. Certainly old Strider, Gimli, and Legolas came out of it all right, and now they've found Frodo and Sam as well, although those two are definitely anything _but_ all right. They're _so_ thin! I don't know how anyone could be so thin and still be alive, although Gandalf says it's probably the _lembas_that did it. But they had a terrible time of it from the looks of them. They are so thin! I know that my mum thought that Frodo was far too thin when he was a lad, but if she were to see him now she'd not believe it! She'd be devastated!"

Derunol looked more closely at his guest, and realized something important. "But—but you aren't a Man?"

Merry gave a brief laugh, but one that had no humor behind it. "No, I'm not. Although they tell me that I'm a man of Rohan now in spite of me being a Hobbit. And Pippin they call a man of Gondor! A man of Gondor and a Guard of the Citadel! Can you believe it—my little Cousin Peregrin Took, a Guard of the Citadel? If that won't strain his father's credulity!"

Derunol felt a circle of his scalp contracting. "The _Ernil i Pheriannath_is your cousin?"

"Oh, yes, he did tell me they call him that while we were in the gardens of the Houses of Healing. Prince of the Halflings? I ask you! I hope nobody calls him that back home in the Shire—Aunt Eglantine will laugh them to scorn! Not little scapegrace Pippin Took!"

The Gondorian lay back, trying to take this all in. This was another of the _Pheriannath_who was talking so with him! Wait until Mardon heard about this—and then the memory of his brother's death swept over him yet again. No, he'd not be able to tell Mardon about this after all. And he realized that he was beginning to weep again.

Merry bent over him. "Are you in pain? I can summon Strider if you'd like, or perhaps one of his Elven brothers. Odd to think he has always thought of them as his brothers, but then I'm told he did grow up, there in Rivendell, as if he were Elrond's son, too, in spite of him being a Man rather than an Elf. Elladan tells me that this is why he's such a good healer, having learned from Elrond himself and his sons, them being the greatest Healers in all of Middle Earth. But, then, when you're an Elf you have all the time in the world to become the best at whatever you choose, I suppose."

At this Merry shook his head as if to clear it. "Listen to me, blathering on as if I were Pippin himself," he said. "Must be being relieved to know Pippin, Frodo, and Sam are still alive, although we don't know yet how much any of them might recover. All three of them are in rather a bad way, you understand. None of them is awake, even. They have Pippin in one of the smaller tents where the critically wounded are kept, and Frodo and Sam have a tent of sorts all to themselves. Actually, it's more of an enclosure than a tent, really, as they don't have a top to it. Gandalf says Frodo and Sam both react badly to feeling closed in, and they seem to need to be able to have the stars shining upon them at night. When they do have to put a top on it when it rains, Frodo especially takes it badly." He took a shuddering breath. "Poor Frodo—he's had such a time of it. First the Nazgûl stabbed him with a Morgul blade at Weathertop, and he almost became a wraith himself, if he'd not been fighting it so hard until we finally got him to Rivendell where Elrond could use Elvish medicine to save him, and then a troll tried to skewer him in Moria, and finally he goes to Mordor himself with just Sam beside him, and from what I can tell not only was the Ring torturing him the whole way, but the two of them almost starved to death! Strider says that they both were at the point of death when they were found and brought out of Mordor by the Eagles and Gandalf."

"Who is Gandalf?" Derunol found himself asking.

"I understand most people here call him Mithrandir," Merry explained. "Back home in the Shire we've always called him Gandalf, although I understand he has several other names as well, from what Faramir told me in Minas Tirith before they sent for me to come be here for Pippin, Frodo, and Sam. We Hobbits, we need one another, you see. What can mere Men know about truly caring for a Hobbit, after all?" Derunol could see the concern and fear in the eyes of Meriadoc Brandybuck as he spoke of his fellows, and he could understand it, knowing the depths of his grief for Mardon. And he realized that this Merry was no callow youth as he'd been himself, and that he was indeed only now recovering from his own wounds. No, he was a man of his own people who merely seemed younger than he was due to the differences between the two races.

Merry had been clutching at the mug of water he'd poured, and now he looked down at it stupidly, as if he'd only now realized he'd never given it to Derunol. "Oh, dear, I've been shaking so that I've spilled most of what I poured for you, and you've not gotten a drop to drink yet!" he murmured. "Mum would be on me for my lack of manners, should she have been able to see me, that is." He refilled the cup and held it for Derunol to drink from. Only when the young Man indicated he'd had enough did he set it down on the rough bench beside the bed on which Derunol lay. "At least you are awake, and you seem to be doing pretty well," Merry noted. "Maybe they can make a wheeled chair for you to get around in, or a pegged leg such as Uncle Isengar wrote of in his memoirs. He went to sail upon the Sea, long ago, before even Bilbo was born. He's the only Hobbit I ever heard tell of who went to Sea and returned again to let others know. I doubt many of the Tooks know as much about him as I do—Pippin and I found his book in the Old Took's rooms and read it, you see. At least your mind is working rightly, from what I can see, that is. Whether or not Pippin, Frodo, and Sam will be able to think aright we don't even know yet, and probably won't know for days to come! Frodo seems to draw back if I brush his face! What horrors would make him do that, do you think? I'm his cousin, after all, and he's always been like my big brother!"

This one, Derunol realized, also knew grief, grief for this Frodo of his who might never wake up again. There were a few who'd been in this tent who'd been quiet and withdrawn, who had slipped out of their bodies during the night, unable to bear what had happened to them and what they'd seen done in the battle. Would it prove so for this Merry's cousin, who apparently was so badly off? He reached up and brushed the tears of anguish from Merry's cheeks, glad to be able to return the comforting that the Hobbit had shown him. "If Lord Mithrandir is by him, I suspect that your Frodo will be as well as can be. He is, after all, a powerful Wizard."

Merry gave him a watery smile. "Yes, he is that. Thank you so. I need the reassurance, I find. After all we've been through, I suspect all of us in this camp need the reassurance. But no matter how whole we might seem on the outside, we're all changed from what we were, and we'll never be the same again. It will be easier for you in many ways, I suspect, for since you've lost a leg and will always be scarred, people will be kind and accept that inside there will always be pain from what you've been through. But for Frodo, Sam, and me, and probably Pippin as well," he gave another shuddery breath, "how will anyone else truly understand? I know I look the same, although I do have some scars now, not that they are anywhere as showy as yours will be. They'll expect us to be the same as we were before we left home, and we can't be, and especially not Frodo. Oh, they'll never understand Frodo at all, those who have no idea what he's been through. He looks so normal, except for being so thin and weak at the moment, that is. But he's never pulled away from me in my life, and now he does. And Aragorn says he'll likely never be able to eat properly, not after nearly starving to death and all the ash and fumes he swallowed while he was in Mordor. And what the Ring did to him—no one, not even Gandalf, can appreciate that!"

After a time Merry left, called out of the tent by one of the Rohirrim to attend on their new young King, and Derunol understood now who it was the Hobbit had said he'd seen die, and who the Lady was he'd mentioned. The Lady Éowyn, the late King's niece and the sister to the new King of Rohan. He'd ridden into battle with the sister to King Éomer! And he'd truly helped slay the Lord of the Nazgûl!

But for Derunol himself, he had a new perspective on his future. He might be crippled now, but at least, as Merry had pointed out, he could think clearly. And he didn't have to remain bed-bound for the rest of his life—he could indeed look to possibly having a pegged leg made for him so that he could walk once more. And just perhaps he might give Eldhrim some strong competition for Gilien's love—after all, she'd turned Eldhrim down before and had chosen _him!_ No, he'd not let Gilien go without a fight, not now after surviving the Battle of the Black Gate! He wasn't the same as he'd been before, but he wasn't without hope, at least. If this Meriadoc Brandybuck could come back from the shadows as he had, then so could Derunol! The victory against Mordor had been won beyond all hope, and Derunol had played a part in guaranteeing that victory. He wasn't going to give up on everything else now, not and let Eldhrim, who'd not even fought in the war, win his Gilien from him!


	29. The Third Ceremony

_For Lindelea with love as her birthday approaches and for NancyLea. Joy to both of you!_

The Third Ceremony

Estella looked up from the drawer she'd been arranging as her husband entered their new room. His face was still drawn with grief from the recent death of his father, perhaps enhanced as a result of having just been going through the Master's Desk in the Master's study, that room having just become Merry's own. He held in his hands a largish carved box that had long been a part of that room, standing as it did on the dresser in which many of Brandy Hall's records were kept. She supposed she must have seen it at least once a week since she and Merry had taken up residence in the apartment given over to the Son of the Hall and his family.

"What is it, Merry?" she asked.

"I just opened this and learned what it is, and what it contains."

"It was carved by Frodo's father, wasn't it?"

He nodded. "Yes, and apparently as a gift to my great grandfather on the occasion of Drogo's marriage to Aunt Primula. Everything within the box has to do with the two of them and their children."

Her eyes widened with astonishment. "But they only had the one child!" she said.

He was shaking his head. "No, they actually had five, only one of whom survived more than a few hours after birth. My mum lost two before I was born, and after that she and Dad never deliberately tried for another, not being willing to risk another miscarriage. Even Aunt Eglantine lost one baby, there between Pervinca and Pippin. But Aunt Primula and Uncle Drogo—they lost four, two before Frodo was born and two after, the last one when he was about eight, according to the documents in this. Great Grandda Gorbadoc died not all that long after the loss of the first child, apparently, so all of the documents having to do with the other four children were filled out by Old Rory and Gamma Gilda. I'd seen the notations in the family Book, but they just didn't strike me as much as seeing the documents here, I'm afraid. Only the last one was a daughter, and they'd planned to name her Pansy. She appears to be the only one that Frodo was aware of as a child—he was too young, just barely a faunt, when they lost the lad that came after him."

He opened the box as he spoke, and drew out the relevant documents, each of which, as custom dictated, had attached portions of the umbilical cord for the child whose birth it documented. Suddenly the grief embodied in each of those documents hit Estella. She'd had such an easy pregnancy with her Periadoc. How it would have hurt her to have lost a single child, much less four of them! "Aunt Primula must have been devastated," she murmured.

"Gamma Gilda's journal is in here, and yes, she was. I'm afraid I spent more time going through what's in here and reading the journal than I did in sorting much else out of the desk. And I found the original copies of their marriage contract and their death certificates, too. Grandda's hand shows just how upset he was when he had to write those." He pulled out two more documents and laid them on the end of their bed near where he'd set those that represented Frodo and the four other children born to Drogo and Primula Baggins.

Estella rose to her feet and came where she might look down on them. She touched one letter that was rather blurry. "Tears—he was crying when he wrote this."

"Yes," he responded simply, his voice rather hushed. Then it became somewhat brighter as he continued, "But not everything here is sad, of course. Here's the contract for when they bought River Place, and the one for the smial that was being dug just north of Brandy Hall where they'd planned to move. And there are a number of prizes won by Drogo and Primula at the Free Fair, and some won by Frodo as well. Here's the one for when he entered his roast chicken into the contest for cookery by tweens. And one for paintings he'd done of the Brandywine. Did you realize he painted that view of where the Withywindle enters the Brandywine that hangs in the dining hall? I didn't realize that until today!"

"Really, Frodo painted that?"

"And he did this set of miniatures of his parents, Bilbo, Grandda and Gamma, and all of Grandda's other brothers and sisters and their husbands and wives. And I suspect that this is of his Uncle Dudo. That one was definitely of his Auntie Dora—I remember her well. She died just a year or two after the Party. Bilbo's leaving hurt her so. I don't think she ever quite recovered from that. And look, here's Uncle Mac and Aunt Mantha. And here's Beri as a faunt."

"And you! Oh, you were so darling, Meriadoc Brandybuck!"

"Yes, I was, wasn't I? And look at this—would you mind if I put this up in here, in what will be our bedroom?"

This one was of Frodo himself, done when he must have been a tween, perhaps about the time he left Brandy Hall to go live with Bilbo in Hobbiton. "He looks so determined," she said, stroking the frame.

"It's the same type of frame as the ones of Mum and Dad that they always had on the mantel in the parlor. He did those, too, you know."

"Your mum took those with her to her new rooms."

He nodded. "And the rooms she chose—they were the ones that were always Primula and Drogo's when they visited here. The last time he came, Frodo left the key under Mum's pillow."

There were all of the letters that Frodo had sent to Old Rory and Menegilda Brandybuck from Bag End. It made quite a stack. And near the bottom of the box was what appeared to be another wedding contract. She pulled it out, smiling, and then stopped, amazed, as she looked at the names of bride and groom. "This has our names!" she said.

"And look at the signature for the one performing the ceremony," Merry said, smiling as he pointed.

She was smiling tremulously also as she read the familiar script. "Frodo! Wait—this is from that time we were playing at weddings, back when I was just a young teen. Do you remember? Oh, stars and Moon—I'd almost forgotten! And Merilinde helped me with the dress, in spite of not being well at all. And your cousin Brendilac wrote out the contract. I remember you telling him it was good practice for when he'd be writing them for real! And then, after the ceremony we realized that your dad and Bilbo had both watched the whole thing and your dad was asking us if we were going to live here in Brandy Hall or back with my parents in Budgeford, acting as if it were indeed a binding marriage!"

"I know that Grandda Rory afterwards told me that I'd done the details so right I'd best make certain that when I really did get married I would have to marry you or I could be sued for bigamy," Merry confessed. "I never dreamed he and Dad had kept this contract! I know Dad told me more than once as we were preparing for our real wedding that it was knocking about the Hall somewhere! And it was in here the whole time!"

"He could have married us, once he was the Baggins and had been the deputy Mayor," Estella said.

He nodded. "I'd hoped that perhaps I might persuade him to do just that, back when I was still just imagining asking you for real, before I knew he was already planning to leave the Shire and Middle Earth both. Although I don't think he'd have wished to do more than stand up beside me. I'd have had three to do that—him, Pippin, and Sam." He sighed. "I now wish that he had done it for real, Frodo. Dad would have understood. And I wish Strider could have been here to see…."

"We'll have to show this to him when we go south to Gondor this spring. Lord Strider will smile to see it, I think."

He began to nod, and then stopped, his face struck with a thought. "I wonder," he whispered. "I wonder if Strider just might be convinced to perform a ceremony himself?" He looked at her, his eyes bright with the idea of it. "What if we have Strider formalize our wedding, and have him countersign this contract? Then it would be as if he, Frodo, Dad, and Uncle Paladin had all married us! You know how he sent the wedding cord that was used at Sam and Rosie's wedding, and how Frodo wove in some of the Dúnedain ceremony into ours so that their marriage would be recognized as valid no matter where in the two realms they might travel. And both Dad and Uncle Pal took part in the ceremony with him when Brendi married Narcissa, there in Rivendell that summer he came north for the trade conference not long after Frodo left."

She was smiling, her eyes bright with pride. "Oh, Merry, that would indeed be perfect! Do you think he would? We're going to Gondor ourselves this spring, after all."

(I) (I) (I)

The King and Queen listened to the request made them by Meriadoc Brandybuck and his wife Estella, formerly of the house of Bolger, the King carefully schooling his expression to remain dispassionate, although his eyes sparkled with amusement.

"You'd wish to be married again by the standards of the Dúnedain, would you?"

"If you wouldn't mind, Strider. Perhaps a day or two after the New Year is celebrated so as not to take away from that. My mother came with us as well as my Cousin Berilac just so they could be here to see, and Freddy came to be the witness for the Bolgers. Rosamunda is all up in arms, of course, thinking anyone might not recognize a proper Shire marriage. But she just doesn't understand."

"But Shire wedding contracts are already recognized as valid by the standards of both the North and the South kingdoms."

"We know that, Aragorn. But we want to think that everyone we love and honor had a definite part to play in our marriage, even if it was before or after the fact of it."

"Before?"

But Merry and Estella would not explain. "We have the contract here—I know it was written out and witnessed years ago and it's the Shire form for it. We just want for you and Lady Arwen to bless our marriage, too, and to countersign the _original _contract. It would mean so very much to us. Please!"

There was something that the King was not being told as yet, and he could see the secrets dancing behind the eyes of the Master and Mistress of Buckland as well as being guarded by the Thain of the Shire. He didn't think that Mistress Diamond understood just what was going forward, and the idea that the Thain's Lady had no idea as to what intrigue was being presented by her husband's cousin and his wife piqued at the Man's curiosity. At last he and the Queen agreed to hold a private ceremony three days after the New Year affirming the marriage between the Master of Buckland and his bride of so many years.

The ceremonies of memorial held on the day of the New Year as known now in Gondor and Arnor were celebrated with joy, and many of the citizens of the Southern Realm came to the White City so as to see the two of the King's Companions who had come all of the way from the Shire to take part in them. Many comments were shared regarding the _Pheriannath _who stood by their King in the Court of Gathering, including Peregrin Took garbed as a Captain of the Guard of the Citadel and Meriadoc Brandybuck. Little Periadoc Brandybuck drew much attention, as did Faramir Took, the infant heir to the Thain of the Shire.

Three days later a second, far quieter ceremony was held in the Court of the Tree in which the King of Gondor and Arnor reaffirmed the marriage of his friend Merry to his wife Estella. King Éomer of Rohan was one of the attendants on the groom, while Queens Lothiriel and Arwen stood by the bride.

There were two copies of the contract, the King noted, set out on the small table holding the Presence Candle and the bottle of ink and pen with which he would countersign the agreements already made. He noted that Merry's kinsman Brendilac, who was Merry's personal lawyer, stood by Master Alvaric, now Master of the Guild of Lawyers for the Southern Kingdom, both of them with smug looks upon their faces. Apparently they, too, were parties to whatever secret lay behind the ceremony being held this day.

There was nothing false to the ceremony itself, however. Bride and groom responded to the ritual with solemn joy, and there was no question that they saw this indeed as a true reaffirmation of the vows they'd already given one another. Throughout much of the ceremony Estella's hand rested on her swelling abdomen, for she was even now well gone with her second child. The King Elessar wondered if he should perhaps suggest they remain in Minas Anor until after the birth so as not to hazard a possible miscarriage while they were on their way back home again.

At last he released the colorful woven marriage cord from their hands, bidding all to rejoice at this rededication of a marriage already well made, and all clapped and cheered as the Master and Mistress of Brandy Hall kissed passionately. The King laughed quietly as he turned to the table to countersign the copies of the marriage contract set there already, and then he stopped as the signature of the one who'd signed the first as officiant registered upon him.

"Frodo!" he whispered, his eyes meeting those of Brendilac Brandybuck.

"Yes, Frodo signed this one. You might note the date, though. Merry was only fifteen, and Frodo still a tween. I was only an apprentice at the time, for it was still a few years before I was recognized as a lawyer for the Shire. And you will note a couple of additions to the witnesses—Bilbo and Saradoc both insisted on adding their signatures."

"And Sam's signature is here as well."

"Yes, he signed it just before we left the Shire to come south. Pippin was part of the original ceremony, although his job then was to carry the wedding flowers. He was but a faunt at the time, you see. But he intends to set his signature here beside that of Freddy's."

The second contract was the one prepared for the proper, legal wedding of Meriadoc Brandybuck and Estella Bolger, and he saw that it had been officiated over by both Paladin Took and Saradoc Brandybuck. He knew that Sam and Pippin had both attended upon Merry at that wedding, and he knew now why both contracts were here before him. Smiling, he took up the pen, dipped it into the bottle of red ink, and signed the two contracts. It was the one signed by Frodo, however, that he rolled and bound with the marriage cord, having bride and groom grasp it in the approved manner, his hand on one side of the cord and hers on the other while he gave them his private words and benediction, and they still grasped it between them as Merry and Estella approached the White Tree in hopes of sharing their joy with one whom they had reason to believe might just be beneath his own White Tree on Tol Eressëa that day.

~0~

_Author's notes: The trade conference at Rivendell and the wedding there of Brendilac Brandybuck to Narcissa Boffin appear in "The Ties of Family," while the play wedding of Merry and Estella is described in "Merry's Wedding" which may be found in the "Moments in Time" collection._


	30. A Time to Grieve

_For Cairistiona's birthday._

A Time to Grieve

"And where are Master Frodo and Prince Faramir?" the new King asked the page Sephardion.

"They have not come forth from the lesser audience chamber where they met earlier in the day with the errand rider come from Lossarnach, my liege," the youth answered.

"Is the errand rider yet with them?"

"No, he did not stay long, and has gone on to the barracks in the Sixth Circle where he has been granted a place to rest for the night before he returns again homeward."

The Lord King Elessar nodded his understanding and dismissed the young Man. Why it was that his new Steward and the Ringbearer lingered yet within the lesser audience chamber he could not yet know, but something in the errand rider's message must have been sufficiently important to need discussion between the two of them. Perhaps he should join them and learn what matter so captured their attention….

(I) (I) (I)

It was Frodo Baggins who answered the King's knock at the door, and Aragorn was surprised at the expression of relief to be seen on the Hobbit's face. "Oh, bless you, Aragorn—I am not certain how the current situation should be met."

He could hear Faramir's pleasant tenor voice raised in a dirge he remembered from his days as Ecthelion's favorite Captain and was surprised. He looked over Frodo's head and saw Faramir standing on the opposite side of the room looking at a painting done of the dead White Tree, a wine cup in his hand that he waved gently as he sang the doleful tune. "What has brought this on?" he asked the Hobbit in low tones.

"You heard that an errand rider came from Lossarnach to bring greetings to Faramir?"

"Yes, I was told this."

"Apparently Lord Forlong's heir thought to dispatch to Faramir a gift of wine to mark his new estate as Prince of Ithilien, a tun of which is to be delivered to the Steward's own wine stores in the lower city. But the messenger brought with him three wineskins full of the drink to give to Faramir directly as samples of what will soon arrive. He would not accept a drink of the wine himself in return for his errand, but Faramir saw both himself and me served, using the goblets kept on the side table within the room. It's quite potent, so I've not accepted any more, but I fear that Faramir has indulged perhaps more than is strictly good for him. He stated after his first sip of it that this was a vintage that both his father and his brother favored, and he became quite solemn. The more he drinks the more sad he's become, until a few minutes ago he began singing this song, he says in honor of the fallen."

Aragorn nodded, understanding the situation. "Do not worry, Frodo—this was bound to hit him eventually. You must realize that he has not truly had a chance to mourn for the loss of his brother and his father. He is one born to duty, much as you yourself are, and in the past few weeks since their deaths he has been able to do little but to face one matter of state after another. The knowledge of how much Boromir and his father loved this wine would have finally brought to mind the fact that they are gone from him indeed. And, for the first time since the siege was lifted he has leisure to allow the grief its way that he might at last truly put it behind him.

"You may remain if you wish, but perhaps you would be more comfortable back at the guesthouse for the evening. I can keep Faramir company as he works through his grief. Know this—my kinsman Halbarad, who was as a brother to me from the time I returned to my own people when I first came of age, was also lost in the battles. Perhaps if you will send word to Halbarad's brothers Hardorn and Halladan asking that they join us here we can all drink to the memory of those we have lost who were so dear to us. For all need to mourn when the time is right for it."

Frodo smiled in understanding. "I see. And you, too, wish to mourn Lord Denethor and Boromir as much as he does, I think."

Aragorn laid his hand on Frodo's head. "I do. In spite of the suspicion Denethor came in time to show toward me, still I liked and honored him well. We were indeed as close as brothers when I first came to Gondor so long ago. I wish he had not become jealous of the regard shown me by his father and the people of the land, for he and I shared so much love for lore and the traditions of our people. As for Boromir—having fought side by side with him as we did along the way and having come to honor him as I did for his integrity, I could almost wish that he were my Steward now, in spite of the love I now feel for his brother."

"I will go to summon your friend's brothers, but do you mind if I remain? For although I did not know your kinsman or Lord Denethor, I still find myself grieving for Boromir, and am so glad that he realized that the actions he took at the end were brought on by the Ring rather than by his own bent."

_"And it is to those who fell we raise our glasses…" _intoned Faramir.

Aragorn gave his young Steward a glance, and nodded. "He will not begrudge you your presence here tonight, Frodo. But go and fetch Halladan and Hardorn. They, too, have had little chance to mourn properly. We shall all do so thoroughly this evening."

Reassured, the Hobbit left upon his errand, knowing that all would be the better for having been allowed to grieve for those lost in the war.


	31. On the Ponies

_For Lily Baggins, Lily the Hobbit, and Ansostuff for their birthdays. Beta by RiverOtter._

On the Ponies

Merimac Brandybuck rode down the lane toward the gate through the High Hay, although of course he was not intending to go quite as far as that. He led two mares from the pony herd for Brandy Hall, ponies intended to be made intimately familiar with his nephew Merry's white stallion, Stybba. As he approached the field opposite the gate to Crickhollow, he paused his own gelding, watching with delight as Stybba and the other ponies currently pastured there raced past, apparently reacting in pleasure to the beauty of the day. Pippin's Jewel followed at Stybba's flank, while the mare he'd been told had been given to Sam Gamgee to ride home from Gondor trailed behind, her dark mane streaming in the wind of her passing. He wasn't certain why Sam had chosen to ride that skewbald pony back to the Shire from Bree and had left this delightful lady with their even darker pack pony at the Prancing Pony, for there was no question that she was indeed a beauty, a grey with black mane and tail and a bright, intelligent eye that any gentlehobbit would be proud to ride. But the gardener appeared to have a special place in his heart for the brown and white pony he called Bill, and rode him by preference. Merry had assured Mac that the mare would be going on to Hobbiton soon enough, perhaps after the marriage of Sam to Rose Cotton, which was to take place the first of May. But as the gardener could only ride one pony at a time and boarding at the stable in Hobbiton was at a premium at the moment, what with reconstruction of the Ivy Bush's outbuildings still going on after the damage done there on Lotho's orders, when the King's Men brought the pony to the Brandywine Bridge she'd fallen under Merry's guardianship for now.

Mac slipped to the ground and pressed forward, leaning on the fence to watch the ponies' antics. April was half over now, and all was bright and shining both in Buckland and in the Shire proper. The grass was growing rapidly, and the ponies had plenty to eat and a good deal of room to run, and appeared to be filled with the joy of spring.

One of the mares he'd brought with him pressed against his shoulder with her muzzle. "What do you think, lass?" he asked her. "Does he look a likely match for you? I have an idea that the two of you will throw beautiful foals."

"That they should," agreed Merry, who'd come soft-footed out of the gate to the house that he shared with Pippin. Mac smiled at his nephew and returned his attention to the ponies in the field. "And I've put in a word for a few other ponies from Rohan's herds for the future. We in the Shire will have a wider choice as to steeds once some of those add to our current bloodlines."

"I don't know that I've ever seen ponies as beautiful as these you four brought home with you. Oh, that one of Sam's that he rides more often than not is plain enough. But these-"

"Bill was born and bred right there in Bree, so is probably of much the same lines as many of our own ponies. No, he's not particularly special to look at, but he has true heart that proved itself several times over while we were on our way east and south. Sam has good reason to love him well. This mare is a fine thing, but when we reached Bree on our way back and we found that Bill was there waiting for us I thought Sam would expire from sheer satisfaction and pride! Of course he chose to ride Bill home and had this one sent afterwards. And I suspect that one day he'll breed Bill to her to make certain both bloodlines are preserved."

"Then Bill was not gelded?"

"Bill? Oh, no—not that he was treated in such a way that he would have had that much interest in a mare before he came into our hands. Had a bad master before he came our way—a nasty sot named Bill Ferny. In fact, when we got here to the Shire he was attached to the Shirriff House by the Bridge Inn, Ferny was. Ferny apparently treated the pony badly indeed—it looked much older than he actually was, and Ferny must have fed him next to nothing. To go along with us and appear better when we approached Rivendell than he did when he came to us in Bree, Ferny had to be bad to the bone."

"But what happened to the ponies you left with—the ones you told us had the scours?"

Merry blushed. "I'm sorry I lied about them, really, but we didn't want anyone to guess we were leaving the Shire—it could have been very bad indeed if that became generally known. Well, they're in Bree now. When we got there to the Prancing Pony there were some bad people there. Some we'd now recognize as probably being half-orcs—had goblin blood, that is. They were Saruman's people, we learned. He had been sending them north secretly for quite some time. We found out where all the food and pipe weed went that Lotho had been sending off out of the Shire, by the way—was sending it all south to a place called Isengard, where Saruman had lived for quite some time. He'd been experimenting with breeding orcs—seems as if all those who go to the bad get into that. Started back with Morgoth, Frodo and Aragorn explained, and then Sauron started doing it, too, and finally Saruman did so as well. Anyway, Saruman is the one who they called Sharkey when he got here. Used to be Gandalf's chief, but he went bad secretly some time ago, and nobody realized it until Gandalf left the Shire after letting Frodo know just what it was that Bilbo had left on his hands when he left the Shire after the Party."

Mac was beginning to feel a bit dizzy, as none of this seemed to make much sense at the moment. "Am I talking with Pippin?" he interrupted. "You don't usually blather like this, Meriadoc Brandybuck!"

Again Merry colored, his ears going quite pink. "I'm sorry, but it's all very complicated. But Saruman—Sharkey, that is—he found out about the Shire from Gandalf and had thought it sounded a good place to start trying to conquer the world at. He also wanted to conquer Rohan, which was the kingdom nearest to where he lived in Isengard. That way he'd have two lands he was boss over, I suppose. So he put one of his agents into Théoden King's court to convince the people and the King that Théoden was too old and frail to rule properly. He may have been using poisons or bad medicines on him, too, as well as poisonous words. And Saruman sent agents north to try to take over the Shire and the Breelands. At first they were supposed to look for anybody who was leaving the Shire who might have the—well, what Bilbo left to Frodo. If they could they were supposed to keep Frodo in Bree until enough bully-boys arrived to take him prisoner so they could search him, find what he was carrying, and bring It back to Saruman, or that's what they figured out once we got to Rivendell. Only Sauron had learned from Gollum that a Hobbit named Baggins had found It, so he sent his Black Riders, too. Those were the ones who broke into the Shire at the Sarn Ford. They went all the way to Hobbiton and were asking about where Baggins might be even before Frodo, Pippin, and Sam were quite out of the village. They appear to have pursued them all the way to the Bucklebury Ferry, and a few days later several of them tried to get into the house here, and that was when Fatty went on the run to try to get away from them. We were long gone by then, and they don't appear to have felt brave enough to attempt to follow us into the Old Forest. I doubt that either the trees or Tom Bombadil would have welcomed them there, though."

"Tom Bombadil? How on earth did you learn about Tom Bombadil?"

"Well, there are enough stories about the strange old soul who lives in the Old Forest floating around Buckland and the Marish, you know. But I didn't believe they were real until we met him in the Old Forest, when he saved us from Old Man Willow."

Mac felt himself going white. "You mean those stories are true, too?"

Merry nodded, rubbing as he often did at his right arm as if it were suddenly cold. "Oh, yes—tried to eat us in his own treeish fashion, he did. Tom made him let us go, though—Frodo says he took one of the tree's own branches and hit him with it, telling him to stop being horrible and to go to sleep like a good tree, or something like that. And he did, but not with any good grace from what we could tell. The trees do what Tom tells them to do, at least. Then Tom took us to his house for the next few days until we were ready to go on again. The Elves know about him, although they have a different name for him, it appears. Sam said they even talked about sending the—_It_—to him for safekeeping, but it was decided that wouldn't be either safe or effective.

"But this still isn't telling how the ponies I had here ended up staying in Bree, I suppose. When we got to Bree, we got there pretty late. Butterbur gave us a private parlor and a room with four beds in it, but the rest went to the common room while I went out to take a walk and have a look around at Bree. While they were in the common room someone talked Frodo into giving them a song from the Shire, so he gave them that one about the Man in the Moon coming down to the inn and getting drunk. They appear to have liked it, so they got him to sing it again, so this time the dear old lad got up on a table and started that dance that Bilbo had made to it, until the table fell over and he went rolling over and disappeared."

"Then that report was true!"

"You heard about Frodo disappearing at the Prancing Pony?"

Mac gave a twisted smile. "There are those even in Bree who report to the Master of Buckland and the Hall, you know. Yes, we heard about it, although the tale was a bit muddled. Frodo at the time you left was a bit too—substantial—to just go invisible, you see."

"Well, that's because no one knew what it was he was carrying and what It could do if one were to wear It. But there were agents both from Isengard and from Mordor in Bree, and people like Harry Goatleaf on the gate and Bill Ferny had been approached by both parties, it seems. There was quite a party that had come north up the Greenway, and most of them were in the Pony's common room that evening and saw Frodo's song and dance, and how he went invisible when the table fell over and he went rolling head-over-heels across the floor. Frodo crawled away as fast as he could until he was in the far corner before he realized he was wearing—It, so he took It off and got told off strongly by Strider for being so careless. It took even him some time to realize just how—nasty—It could be and how It was trying to betray Frodo. Realizing that It was awake and aware and recognized that Its Master's people were nearby and so It was trying to catch their attention was quite the shock for Aragorn son of Arathorn, it seems. Well, he learned while we were on the way from Bree to Rivendell just how sly the horrible thing was, and how hard it was for Frodo to keep It from taking him over when It felt it was to Its advantage.

"The night we spent at the Prancing Pony, Strider wouldn't let us sleep in our assigned room. We fitted the beds up with bolsters and such to make it appear we were sleeping there, and they even found a dark mat that was enough like Frodo's hair that anyone seeing it would think that was his bed, and we slept on the floor of the parlor instead. That night the windows to the room were forced, and when we went in to see after dawn, the bolsters and pillows and beds had been slashed to pieces, and that mat had been torn to shreds. And someone had broken into the stable and apparently stole all of the horses and ponies that were there. So we had lost the five ponies I'd bought that we took with us, and our packs weren't big enough to carry everything we needed. Butterbur felt it was his fault somehow, and insisted on paying me for the five missing ponies, and he bought Bill from Bill Ferny for us to use as a pack beast."

"I see," Mac said. When the same mare pushed again at his shoulder, Merry helped him remove fence rails to allow those ponies he'd brought to join Stybba, Jewel, and Sam's mare. Once the rails were back in place, the two Hobbits stood close to watch them.

Merry rubbed a bit at his shoulder before leaning with his forearms on the top rail. "Apparently after we left the Breelands and there was the attack on Bree by Sharkey's people, one day a young Ranger showed up at the door of the Pony leading my ponies, saying that they'd been found in the Old Forest, and Tom Bombadil felt that they should be sent back to Butterbur. He'd paid for them, thinking they'd been stolen on his watch, so I left them there when we came back through Bree, figuring he deserved them. They're well treated and serve as riding beasts happily enough, and they're not being abused as Bill was, at least.

"Bill, however, came back on his own apparently not that long before we got back to Bree. He went east to Rivendell with us, and we took him south with us for as long as we could. But once we had to cross to the eastern side of the mountains we couldn't take him further. We tried going over the mountains but there was a terrible snowstorm and we couldn't make it to the summit of the pass, even. So we ended up having to go back and go under the mountains instead, going through the Dwarf mines of Moria. We couldn't take Bill through there, and at the last moment he was frightened away by a monster that attacked us. We got inside the mines just in time, and he fled back the way we'd come. Sam felt so ashamed, but what could he do? Sam truly had come to love Bill, and it tore him in two to have to leave him outside the mines when we fled inside, but as Aragorn told us Bill was a wise beast and returned to where he felt we would come again if we were able. Bob had been taking very good care of him since his arrival, so Bill was quite fit when we got there at last."

"So, how did you come by these ponies?" Mac asked, indicating Stybba and the two others from Rohan.

"Well, Théoden King gave me Stybba. I learned when we were returning home and stopped at Meduseld for the handfasting of Prince Faramir to the Lady Éowyn that Stybba had been the herd stud for the King's personal pony herd. Stybba's sire had been the pony on which Théoden King's son Théodred learned to ride, in fact, and somehow when he saw me he determined that I should have Stybba. It was a great honor to be given this particular pony to ride, and he appeared to be glad to see I was already an accomplished rider. I would have ridden Stybba all the way to Minas Tirith when we headed out to break the siege on the city, but at the last moment Théoden decided I should remain in Rohan for my own safety. Turns out he didn't believe me that I'd had proper training in using my sword—thought I was just bragging. But let me tell you that Boromir and Aragorn saw to it that we got excellent training in the use of edged weapons while we were in Rivendell, and we practiced as often as we could while we were headed south. And we finally had to put that training to use there in the Mines of Moria. I've now killed my share of orcs, and even a few Men, there in the battle of the Pelennor Fields.

"I was furious and embarrassed to learn I was to stay behind, of course, but then a smaller Rider came to me secretly and said he'd take me with him to the battle, although I'd have to stay hidden under his cloak until we were well on the way. So I rode with—Dernhelm, he told me to call him. I was so worried about Pippin being alone there in Minas Tirith with a war going on around him that it just never struck me as odd that Dernhelm's voice was rather high or that he was so small and slender. So it was that I rode to the battle with the Lady Éowyn and never really recognized her as a woman, much less as the King's niece. I rode with her on her horse Windfola, and when we got to the Pelennor we fought as we could from the back of the same horse, her fighting to the left and me to the right. Killed twice the number of enemies that way, I suppose."

Something in the way this was said gave Mac a chill, although he did all he could to hide that fact. This was more than Merry had been willing to tell since he'd returned to the Shire in November, and the older Hobbit felt it was important that the family begin to properly understand what had happened to the lad out there.

"Then we were on the ground—an oliphaunt came near to us, and Windfola threw Dernhelm and me and ran off in her terror. Yes, we saw oliphaunts out there, Mac. Even Sam and Frodo saw one in the forests of Ithilien when they caught a glimpse of a battle between Men of Gondor and warriors from Harad coming up the South Road to join Mordor's armies. The Southrons put huge saddles on the oliphaunts and built platforms on the saddles, and then war towers on the platforms. Their archers would ride on the towers and shoot down on foot soldiers and what cavalry could stay ahorse near them, most horses, like Windfola, being too terrified to remain near the oliphaunts for long. They didn't get much in the way of opposition! But warriors afoot learned to aim bows and spears at their eyes, and so they could be brought down."

Now Merry went quiet, and Mac had the idea that although he was no longer describing what he'd seen, yet he was still reliving the horror of that battle in his memory. At last he said, "We were victorious, Éowyn and I, against the Witch-king, but at great cost. He'd attacked the King's horse, and killed it—and it threw the King and rolled on him, and killed him. Only Éowyn would stand to protect her uncle, so I rose to protect _her_, and then—then each of us struck at him, and we managed to kill him. I didn't think it was possible!

"Then I was inside the city, and Pippin had found me, and then Aragorn was calling for me to awaken from—from dark dreams. Frodo must have fought such dreams, after the Witch-king stabbed him on Weathertop. No wonder he was so ill for so long! With the Morgul shard working its way toward his heart and the Witch-king's curse on him, and the Ring on his person—I am still amazed how very strong Frodo proved! And he carried It all the way from the Shire to the Mountain in Mordor—every step of the way, fighting It and doing all he could to protect everyone else from Its persuasions! Oh, It was indeed awake now, and every time It sensed Its Master's people nearby It would try to force him to put It on and reveal himself to them! It was terrible to see him having to fight It, Mac! And he fought it so hard—and so well!"

Again he went quiet, and he'd obviously skipped a great deal of time when he spoke next. "I was there when they all woke up in Ithilien, there on the field of Cormallen. Pippin had been fallen upon by a troll he'd killed, and Frodo and Sam had been rescued from Mordor by Gandalf and the Eagles. All were in a bad way when I arrived from the city—I was sent for when it was decided I was well enough to travel, and that the others would benefit from me being by them while they slept. Once he awoke, Pippin began recovering rapidly, and it was much the same with Sam. Only Frodo never fully recovered—Strider says he was hurt too deeply for too long, and the scars will most likely always be with him. He and Sam were still rather weak when we returned to the city, so Aragorn had sent a message to Lord Faramir, the new Steward of Gondor, to have ponies ready for Frodo and Sam to ride up through the city upon, once the coronation was over. Aragorn insisted that he would be crowned outside the city in sight of all, and only would accept the crown if everyone agreed they wanted him to take it. It was very moving, when our Strider became the Lord Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar, the first King of Gondor in a thousand years, and the first King of Arnor in even longer. He's a very good king, you see.

"The ponies Frodo and Sam were allowed to ride were only loaned, and so when Éomer, the Lady Éowyn's brother and the new King of Rohan, left with his sister and most of their Riders to see to things back home in Rohan, he promised to bring back a pony for each of us when he returned to take the old King's body back to Rohan for proper burial there. They came back shortly after Aragorn married Lord Elrond's daughter Arwen. I suppose, as he'd been fostered by Lord Elrond after his father's death, perhaps Aragorn should have thought of her as his foster sister—he certainly considers her twin brothers his own brothers. But it seems she wasn't in Rivendell when he grew up there, having gone to Lórien to stay with her grandparents after her mother was injured and had to leave Middle Earth. So he didn't even meet her until the day he came of age, and he's been in love with her ever since. Finally she agreed to marry him, but her father wouldn't let it happen until Aragorn was King of both Gondor and Arnor, so if Frodo and Sam hadn't made it to the Mountain as they did he'd never have been allowed to marry, it seems.

"They brought Stybba for me, and Berry here for Sam, and the bay for Frodo, and Jewel for Pippin, and Charcoal as our pack pony. Frodo immediately named his pony for Aragorn, and Strider he's been ever since. Frodo was not so happy to find that Strider was a gelding, although he loves him the more for what he's been through. Seems that a younger lord had picked out Strider when his wife gave birth to a lass, intending that the child learn to ride on him when she was old enough, and they had Strider gelded to make him a better mount for a girl-child. Only the bairn didn't live all that long. So many children don't seem to live to the age of three in the outer world. But when the masters for the pony herds were asked to pick out suitable mounts for Pippin, Sam, and Frodo, it appears everyone agreed that Strider was the finest pony available, so they sent him for the Ringbearer. And there's no question that Frodo and Strider love each other dearly. Frodo says that Strider is exactly the type of pony he wanted when he was a child."

"Yes, I remember him telling me what kind of pony he and Aunt Primula intended for him to ride. Although I think he'd planned to name it Pacer or perhaps Trotter."

"Trotter? Isn't that just like Frodo—not exactly the most original when choosing names for beasts, is he?"

Nephew and uncle exchanged soft laughter.

Merry watched the ponies. "I'm glad that the one mare we left behind managed to escape the Black Riders, although it pained me to hear she's had to be tamed all over again. In Bree when the Black Riders came there, we're told that the geese and dogs were all mad with fear and rage, and all the cats hid in dark, sheltered places, and some didn't calm for days. Bob was telling me about how he found the stable cat hiding behind a manger, and she wouldn't so much as look at a rat for a week, even if it was feeding right in front of her! I wonder if the mare would like to come back here under Stybba's protection?

"But I have a few more ponies I've put in a word for, and Éomer has promised to save them for me or to send them north later. One is of the same breeding as Strider, but two years younger—as sweet a little filly as you will ever see, Mac. And there is a young stallion-" He smiled at the image in his head. "Looks a good deal like Shadowfax, who is one of the Mearas, the Lords of Horses. He's only a yearling as yet, but when he's fully grown he will be such a beauty! Grey as the Sea, Gandalf tells me. I may name him Sea Foam. And Lord Halladan of Annúminas has promised me one of the ponies the northern Dúnedain raise for light draught hauling in the low mountains north of Fornost. He thinks I will be impressed by their stamina. Our herds here will be much enriched, Mac—much enriched."

Merry, Mac realized, was going to be far more directly involved in the breeding and training of the Buckland herds than his father had ever been. He'd always thought that his son Berilac would succeed him as the keeper of Brandy Hall's stud book, but the lad had never shown much heart for it. But there was certainly no stricture against the Master of Buckland and the Hall of being his own herd master as well!

"I'll tell you what, Merry: you come back to the stables with me and we'll take a look at what other mares may be coming into season in the next few months. And I have one stallion that I'd love to see mated to Jewel there, if we can get Pippin's cooperation…."


	32. All He'd Wanted

_For all-my birthday mathom to all of you! (Admittedly a bit late!) Written for the LOTR Community Poetry Challenge._

All He'd Wanted

He'd always wished an oliphaunt,  
An oliphaunt, an oliphaunt,  
He'd always wished an oliphaunt,  
An oliphaunt to see.

At last he saw an oliphaunt,  
Great oliphaunt, grey oliphaunt,  
In Ithilien an oliphaunt  
To the forest running free.

He'd wished to take his Rosie-lass,  
His Rosie-lass, sweet Rosie-lass,  
He'd wished to wed his Rosie-lass  
And have her for his wife.

And so he wed his Rosie lass,  
Sweet Rosie-lass, dear Rosie-lass,  
And was kissed so by his Rosie-lass  
She bound him to this life.

He'd wished to serve his Master dear,  
Kind Master dear, wise Master dear,  
He'd wished to ward his Master dear  
To keep all cares at bay.

And so he'd followed his Master dear  
Through empty lands both wild and drear;  
And saved him from the heart of Fear  
And brought him yet living away.

He'd ever feared the waters deep  
With depths of cold where dead might sleep.  
So he skirted e'er the waters deep,  
Avoiding them when he could.

But his Master crossed the waters deep  
In search of Peace, his soul to keep.  
Yes, his Master crossed the waters deep,  
And even grief could be good.

He'd never thought to be the Mayor  
Or in Shire's power to be a player,  
In governance to have a say, for  
That was for those above.

But his Master'd had a plan for  
Sam to be lord of the manor.  
Sam as Mayor does what he can for  
The land they both so love.

And when Rosie's gone her way  
He, too, shall ride toward the West one day,  
And from Mithlond's stony quay  
Shall seek that distant shore.

On his own grey ship to ride  
Across the shining, shifting tide  
He will come at last to Frodo's side  
And see his friend once more.

And with all tears at long last dried  
They'll think to rest now side by side,  
Off'ring up their lives with pride  
Beneath the light of stars.

Into greater Light they'll soar  
And all they've loved will be restored.  
Ne'er again to want for more.  
Nothing their bliss to mar!


	33. Coming of Age

_For Awallen, Radbooks, and Erulisse for their birthdays, with love to all of you!_

Coming of Age

"Thank you Ad—Lord Elrond," the youth Aragorn said with a highly formal bow. His head held high, he turned and left the study of the Master of Imladris, realizing he was being very much on his dignity. Once he was out in the hallway and the door to Elrond's study shut behind him, he slumped against the wall, trying to take in all he'd just learned.

Oh, he'd known all of his life that he was a Man rather than an Elf and that Elrond was not the one who'd conceived him with his mother. He'd always known that Elrond was merely fostering him while he was yet a child, raising him up due to some debt Elrond believed he'd owed to Aragorn's real father. But it had been Elrond who had bound up scraped knees and who gave him his first wooden sword—and who'd scolded him for using that sword on the roses in the garden, setting him to practicing with it instead on the ragweed and goldenrod along the pasture fence. It was Elrond who sat by him while his mother taught him his letters and who introduced him to Quenya as well as Adûnaic and Sindarin and Westron. It was Elrond who took him out into the herb gardens and taught him to tell seedlings from weeds, and who taught him how to harvest and prepare the plants they grew for use in the kitchens and the healing wing. It was Elrond who gave him his first pony, and then his first horse when he was big enough to ride it!

But it was just now that he knew his true lineage and just why Elrond had seen him brought up and educated and trained in so many subjects, why he'd been groomed to administration, record keeping, healing, the study of law, the study of history, gardening, and warcraft as well as languages and the practice of diplomacy. He knew now why his brothers had been tasked with teaching him how to track and how to recognize and deal with the many foes that abounded in the region surrounding the hidden valley of Imladris. He knew now why all had drilled him into an attitude of constant vigilance. Of course he must be vigilant—he was the heir to Isildur and the rightful Chieftain of the northern Dúnedain warriors, and those of his lineage who had failed in their vigilance tended to die violent deaths at the hands of their many enemies! His own father had been slain by an orc arrow that had hit in the eye, after all.

Aragorn son of Arathorn—that was his true name, his rightful lineage. Aragorn son of Arathorn, the Heir to Isildur and through him of Elendil, and heir of the ancient Kings of Númenor as well.

"Well, Dúnadan?"

He looked up, startled. So much for the constant vigilance he'd been trained in! He'd not heard the approach of Glorfindel, who was the Captain of the forces that protected the valley. Not, of course, that Glorfindel generally allowed his approach to be detected….

"You have known my true name and history?" he asked, realizing as he spoke how petulant the question sounded.

"Of course. I helped in the training of your father during his own years of fostering here, as I did with your grandfather and his father before him. All of your ancestors since the return of the followers of Elendil to Middle Earth have spent time here in Imladris, after all. Although I do not believe that Elrond has been as close to any of them as he is to you since he fostered Valandil here."

"And why do you call me _D__ú__nadan_?"

"Are you not _the_ Man of the West, child? It is ever one of the titles borne by the heirs to Elendil."

"But we have not dwelt on the isle of Númenor for three thousand years!"

Glorfindel gave his elegant shrug. "Perhaps not, but the memory of those golden days lives on in you, Aragorn. The hope of your bloodline is there within you, and it is likely that the time for that bloodline to reassert its innate royalty will come during your lifetime."

The young Man closed his eyes and swallowed deeply. "Is that why he called me Estel as a child?" he asked as he reopened his eyes to meet the Elf's gaze.

"Yes. All of your life you have embodied the hope of the Dúnedain as well as the hope of all who seek to defeat the evil of the dark powers. In you your _adar_ has seen again the greatness of his brother, whom he lost so long ago when Elros chose the mortality to which you were born. He has seen the great integrity he honored in Elendur, Isildur's oldest son. He has seen the promise of nobility that so many Men have doubted they can again achieve after so many _yen_ deprived of proper rule by those intended to serve as their Kings. It is in you, beloved one, to lead the forces of the West against the evil of Mordor and to see it defeated once and for all."

"That is much to ask of me, a largely untried youth."

"Perhaps. Do you think yourself unprepared to follow the path appointed to you as Chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain and perhaps as intended King of the reunited realm? Not that you are expected to take on the rule of both Arnor and Gondor all in an instant. You will take some time to gain the trust even of your own people within the Angle and across northern Eriador, for but a few of them have held the knowledge that you did not die as had been feared in the last great plague visited upon the western lands by the Necromancer ere the White Council forced him to reveal himself as Sauron. You have been trained as a warrior and a great captain; now you must convince the Rangers of the north that you are that indeed. You must earn their trust and demonstrate that you can give just judgments and accept counsel and make the hard decisions expected of those who are intended to rule. You must come to know them and their hopes and fears, to stoke the former and strengthen them against the latter. You must approach the various peoples of the northern lands and coax them to cooperate with one another, to stand together against the evil of the darker days to come.

"You will be misunderstood by some and reviled by others, and will be embarrassed by the blind love offered by some few you will find difficult to understand. It will not be easy to take your place in the world outside this protected vale, but it is needful that you be willing to do so if the Darkness is not to overwhelm us as it intends."

"And you think that I can do this?"

Glorfindel gave a smile that was overwhelming in its delight. "Oh, but if anyone can achieve this, I think it is you, for are you not both Estel and Aragorn, Hope beyond understanding and the Valiant Lord? Yes, child, I do believe that you can achieve this—if you can believe in yourself as we have all of your life so far. Do you question your _adar's_ judgment, or mine?"

And in that moment the hope that had been inherent in his childhood name filled him, and Aragorn son of Arathorn put aside his doubts, and went out of Elrond's house to seek a place to practice his new identity, singing the Lay of Lúthien as he sought the comfort of the birch wood where he'd often found the solitude he needed to accept to himself some new truth or responsibility.


	34. First Impressions

_For SivanShamesh and Julchen for their shared birthday._

First Impressions

"Did you first meet our _ada_ when you went to our _daeradar's_ house for the Council, Uncle Legolas?"

Legolas smiled down at Aragorn's son Eldarion, touched at the title the child had accorded him. "When I arrived at Imladris for the Council of Elrond? Oh, no, child, I met him first many years prior to that, on a visit to Elrond's house in company with my _adar_ while your _ada_ was himself a child not much older than you are now."

Eldarion exchanged wide-eyed looks with his sister Melian. "Oh? You mean he was a little boy, the same as me?"

"Oh, yes, Eldarion. He was child yet, his eyes still wide with the wonder of the world."

Melian asked, "And what did he look like? Did he look as Eldarion does now?"

The Elf glanced across the room to where the subject of their discussion sat, listening warily as to what he might say. Deciding to tease his friend, he gave Aragorn what he knew to be his most maddeningly enigmatic smile, and returned his attention to the two children. "Very similar, but at the same time different, very much his own self. His hair was less curly than is that of Eldarion, and was shorter, having only recently been cut and shaped more to his head. I believe that his _naneth_ said that he had been climbing one of the great pines that grows in the valley, and had covered himself in pitch, and that a goodly amount of the pitch had so befouled his hair that it had been necessary to crop it close.

"He had set himself to help in the guarding of the approach to the house, so he had done his best to make certain he was properly armed. He carried at his belt the wooden sword carved for him by Elladan and painted by Elrohir, with a piece of green jade set in the pommel. He also had thrust through the same belt the small eating knife he'd received from his uncle for his conception day gift."

Eldarion was shaking his head. "It wouldn't be for his conception day gift, but for his birthday. Elves celebrate conception days, but Men celebrate birthdays instead. My Uncle Laddan told me that."

"Did he? Well, as he has spent far more time with Men than have I, I must suppose he is right."

He caught the smile Aragorn was entertaining at his expense. He continued, "The eating knife was styled much like a dagger, so he was quite pleased with it, as it suited his appearance. He carried for a spear an alder shoot he'd cut upstream on the river earlier in the day, and that he'd sharpened to a point and peeled to show the white wood underneath the fine bark. He had a bow and quiver proper to his size, and he stood near to those who stood the duty in the proper stance, watching and ready to draw whichever weapon would be most appropriate for any provocation. If he'd not had a large smudge of dirt on his cheek and a white cat at his feet he could have been taken for a proper guard indeed." He flashed a glance at Aragorn and saw the roll of the Man's eyes at the unnecessary detail conveyed to his children.

"He had a white cat even then?" asked Eldarion, intrigued.

"Yes, and I learned later that her name was Imogen. She appeared as dignified as only a cat can manage, her tail curled about her to neatly hide her paws, her eyes watching every movement we made, but always aware that she stood by her beloved person. She appeared to be pleased with herself and with him, and we could hear her purr as we went by."

"If he was on guard he ought to have had a dog by him instead," the boy commented.

Legolas shrugged. "Perhaps. Imogen certainly did not indicate she was ready to spring to defend the keep should anyone offer any threat to the place or its inhabitants."

"Well, I'm certain that our _adar_ was ready to do that himself," sniffed Melian.

Legolas gave Aragorn another sideways glance before he agreed, "I must suppose you are right, although it was difficult to take seriously the threat offered by one who barely reached past my waist. Of course, that was long before I met Sir Peregrin. Nowadays I would know full well that size does not limit the determination an individual knows to defend the home and people he honors and loves."

Eldarion gave his sister a satisfied smile. "See, Melian, I can stand with the Guards if I want! I want to protect Nana and Ada and you and everybody who visits the Citadel!"

The Elf suspected that even now his friend was envisioning trying to explain to Arwen why their son was standing outside the Citadel with the Guards rather than coming to dinner or readying himself for bed, and suppressed the smile the thought gave him as best he might. "Oh, I am certain that you love your own family no less than your _adar_ did then, Eldarion."

"Did your _adar_ notice him?" asked Melian.

"Oh, that he did. He noted the close-cropped hair, the dirt on the side of his face, the rip in his sleeve, and the green stain on his leggings where he'd been kneeling in the grass, and I have the feeling that your father realized just how much the great King Thranduil noticed each blemish." The rueful expression on Aragorn's face showed him that he was right. The Elf continued, "And of course he commented to Elrond as he was conducting us to the rooms set aside for our use on what he'd seen."

Eldarion demanded, "What did he say?"

The children's father was stiffening the slightest bit, Legolas realized. He himself straightened, remembering so clearly the words of his own father regarding the appearance of Elrond's youngest fosterling so long ago. "He said, 'I notice that you have an extra guard to the house today.' Your _daeradar_ looked sideways at him. My _adar_ continued, 'I suspect that his sword and spear might possibly prove less effective than those of his fellows should orcs manage to find their way into the valley, but he looked as ready to use them as those he stood beside, and I am certain that he would have used them to full effect. He appeared both most competent and most determined to do whatever he could to guard the safety of this house and those who dwell within. I think that you can be fully proud of his sense of responsibility.' And your _daeradar _responded, 'Oh, but I do suspect that you are right, Oropherion.' And he could not fully hide the smile of pride he tried to school from his face."

And for a brief moment he saw on his friend's face the same look of unselfish pride and dignity he remembered seeing first in the boy some seventy years of the Sun past.


	35. Questions on the Smiths

_Written for the LOTR Community Jewels of Light challenge. For Tari for her birthday, with best wishes._

Questions on the Smiths

Estel sat near his foster father in the main library of Imladris, reading from a book entitled _The Great Smiths of the Noldor._

"Ada…."

"Yes, Estel?"

"Was there really someone like Fëanor?"

"Yes, there was."

"Did you know him?"

"No, I did not. He was killed by the Black Enemy soon after he set foot upon the soil of Middle Earth, back shortly before the first rising of the Moon and the Sun. That was many _ennin_ before my birth."

"Did he truly make jewels that gave light without the need of flame?"

"Oh, yes—that he did indeed. The jewel that gives light in my study was made by Celebrimbor, who learned how to do so from Fëanor himself."

"Did you know _him_?"

Elrond's voice became solemn. "Yes, my son, I knew Celebrimbor, there before Sauron slew him and laid waste to his land. Celebrimbor had thought of Annatar, as Sauron was styling himself at the time, as a friend and teacher. Never did he expect such betrayal."

The boy examined the illustration before him that showed Fëanor within his forge, laboring over some great jewel. "It's too bad that he forgot how to love his wife when he made the Silmarils," he said. "I am glad that my father never forgot how he loved my mother. Or, at least that is what she tells me."

The Master of Rivendell laid a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder, squeezing it in comfort. "There is no question that your father continued to love your mother all through their marriage, although it was nowhere as long as had been the marriage of Fëanor to Nerdanel. I doubt not that he continues to love her now, even though they are parted by his death."

The boy shrugged slightly. After a moment he asked, "How could Celebrimbor trust Sauron, even if he was in disguise?"

"I'm not certain, _ion nín._ When Annatar came to us, neither Círdan nor I could find it within us to treat with him, for there was something to him neither of us could bear to be near. I have come to wonder if it was the fact that Celebrimbor, having been among the Noldor of Aman, might have known Sauron before he betrayed the Valar, back when he served within Aulë's forge and was known as Aulendil. When Annatar came to Ost-in-edhil to offer his services to the Elves there, Celebrimbor might then have responded unwittingly to the sense of familiarity he had already with him, and thought that this must be one he could trust. But he definitely wished to find glory of his own to match that so long given to his grandfather, and the idea that he could create rings of power excited his imagination to the point he ignored the warnings he received regarding the possible motives of this 'Lord of Gifts'."

Estel thought on this as he traced a fingertip over the jewel pictured being wrought by Fëanor. At last he turned the page, and read the inscription. _"Enerdhil of Gondolin was one of the greatest of the Noldor smiths to come to Ennor, although few of his creations remain within the Mortal Lands. He rejoiced to create gems of healing and renewal, inspired by some jewels that were brought from Aman that came from forges other than that of Fëanor. His greatest achievement was the green jewel known as the Elessar, the Stone of Renewal, which was set within a silver brooch shaped in the likeness of one of Manwë's Great Eagles. It shines with a clear, healing light when its power is wielded, and those bathed in that light know joy and easing, and relief from the pain of all wounds. It has been foretold that it will come in its proper time into the hands of a great King who will take his name from it, and with it he will bring a renewal of peace and glory to the land given into his care, a land long bereft of its full dignity."_

The illustration given was of a far different Elven smith, one who worked with fine tools to set a great green gem within a setting shaped as described in the text. The expression of the smith was as intent as had been that of Fëanor, but it was at the same time more serene, with the trace of a smile of pleasurable surprise to it. After examining the picture for a time he looked up into his _adar's _face. "Did you know Enerdhil, Ada?"

"No, for I never went to Gondolin, which fell long ere I was born; and he did not survive the assault on Turgon's land by Morgoth's creatures. Celebrimbor told me of him, however, for they were friends and often worked together, most likely before Enerdhil entered the hidden realm. In fact, I believe Celebrimbor was the one who crafted the eagle brooch in which the Elessar stone was set. How beautiful it is! The feathering is most delicately done, and it is indeed as if one holds one of the Great Eagles in miniature within one's hand!"

"Then you have seen the Elessar stone?"

"That I have. Enerdhil gave the brooch to the Lady Idril, who in turn gave it to her son Eärendil, who was my father. He wore it when he sailed West to beg the aid of the Valar for the protection of all who lived here within the Mortal Lands against the depredations of Morgoth and his armies. I believe that as he bade farewell to those who sailed back to the Undying Lands after the War of Wrath was over, Celebrimbor found it pressed into his hand, but he never knew who it was that saw it given into his possession. He gave it to the Lady Galadriel, whom it was said he loved but who had married another and could not return his devotion in like kind. Long she wore it ere she gave it in turn to her daughter on the day she was married to the one she chose as her husband."

"Did you know the Lady Galadriel? Or her daughter?"

"Yes."

Estel wondered at the expression on his _adar's_ face, the mixture of intense joy and equally intense pain. He realized that if he wished, Elrond could say a good deal about both ladies. After a moment he turned his attention back to the book and the picture of the smith setting the great green gem into the eagle brooch. At last he said, "If I had a choice between one of the Silmarils and the Elessar stone, I think I'd prefer the latter. After all, no one ever fought over it as they did the Silmarils. And I'd prefer seeing lands healed to having to fight wars for them."

This time he was unaware of the expression in the _peredhel's_ eyes as Elrond looked on him.

_It is said that one day the stone will come to you, and that you will be called after it. For so many ennin it has been in my daughter's keeping now. How it is that Arwen might be convinced to give it into your hands I cannot foresee, but my heart forewarns me that I shall have mixed feelings to see it upon your breast as it lay upon that of my father. Oh, son of my heart, I beg of you not to rob me of my treasure! But, if it is to be, I pray that you will be worthy of it, and of her._

Ignorant of the turmoil in his _adar's_ heart, Estel turned another page in his book.


	36. The Right Decision Affirmed

_For Linda Hoyland for her birthday._

The Right Decision Affirmed

"I wished to thank you, Faramir."

Faramir turned from the citizen who'd been presenting him with a spray of rosemary to give his attention to the newly made King who walked up through the city by his side. "My Lord?" he asked. "Thank me? For what?"

"For the manner in which you dealt with Sam and Frodo, there in Ithilien. Each has told me of their meeting with you and your men, and has expressed appreciation for the courtesy and aid you offered them. Sam is certain that the extra food that you gave them helped them to survive to achieve their quest, while Frodo was heartened to know that there was someone in this strange land who appeared to understand him and wished him well. He has told me that he felt that somehow you were guarding him as much as your own people."

Faramir looked ahead to where the two Hobbits whose acquaintance he'd made across the river rode upon ponies at the head of the King's procession, his expression thoughtful. "I doubt it was more than any other might have done," he said quietly.

The Lord King Aragorn Elessar gave a snort, and Faramir could barely suppress a laugh at such a mundane sound given by such a lordly Man. "Nonsense, Faramir, my friend. Damrod and Mablung and others who went with us to the Black Gate have told me of your father's edict that all found wandering without leave in those lands at the very least were to be bound and brought back here for the Steward's judgment, if not killed outright. You know as well as I that had you done so Mordor would most likely now hold sway over most of Middle Earth and would be swiftly advancing on those few hidden lands where it did not already hold power."

Faramir gave a reluctant nod of understanding. "I fear that you are all too right, my Lord Elessar," he answered.

"Why did you decide to trust them?" the King asked, and Faramir sensed that the curiosity was unfeigned.

The Steward of Gondor gave a slight shrug, staring again at the back of the head of Frodo Baggins as the Hobbit turned his steed to go through the gate to the Fifth Circle. "I am not fully certain I can answer that, my Lord, or not precisely explain my reasoning there at first," he answered slowly. "I must say that those few from Harad we have taken there are capable of similar courtesy, although there is always a significant degree of thinly veiled contempt to be discerned in them. It was very plain that neither Master Frodo nor Master Samwise was speaking freely nor telling us everything of their errand in Gondor's lands, but I could sense no evil will in either of them. Indeed, I could sense but the greatest of anxiety and concern in the both of them, and a level of terror that Master Frodo held, not fear of me, but of what I might be brought to do. Nor was the terror of what I might to do to _him_. It intrigued me, but also left me realizing that he must have great and perhaps dread reason to hold such concern. And the horror they both displayed at the news I gave them of having seen Boromir's body floating in a boat upon the surface of the river reassured me that they truly grieved for his passing and thus had known him indeed. Although I must admit that I sensed a degree of relief in Master Samwise at the news, which told me that they did not necessarily part from my brother in good fellowship."

The King sighed. "Alas that this was true, although it was perhaps needful that Boromir should seek to take the Ring from Frodo at the end as he did, as I doubt anything else might have stirred Frodo to realize that he was right, and that he must break from the rest of the Fellowship to continue on his journey alone. The Ring was constantly testing our wills at that point, and how much longer I myself might have held out against Its temptations I could not begin to say. At least your brother recognized that It had taken him at the end, and appeared to accept my assurance that he had followed Its will rather than his own." He paused to accept a spray of daisies offered him by a shy girl whose mother stood behind the child, obviously proud of her daughter's courage in approaching their new Lord. "Oh, sweet one, I thank you so!" he said, giving the child a smile that won the hearts of both her and her parent. He touched the girl's head in blessing, and gave a respectful nod of his head to the woman before moving on to approach the gate through which Frodo and Sam had already ridden.

"I was so glad when Master Samwise let it slip just what it was that his Master carried," Faramir murmured in low tones. "Knowing what it was that I faced and beginning to appreciate just what trial Master Frodo feared I would undergo helped me know that I must aid them upon their way. And I cannot but praise the constancy of purpose the two of them showed."

His companion nodded, sighing as they again came within sight of the two Hobbits who'd made that dread journey through Sauron's realm. "As I do also. Princes of the West they are now, for so the Great Eagles have named them, and so we acclaimed them there at Cormallen." He turned to give Faramir a wide smile. "And to that estate it is unlikely they could have come had you not aided them as you did there in Henneth Annun. And again, I thank you so."

Faramir was so warmed by that smile and his new Lord's so obvious approval. But there was now no more time to talk, for the press of citizens wishing to bestow upon them sprays of flowers and greenery was heavy once more. But he knew that he had indeed done the right thing when he'd sped Frodo Baggins upon his way with gifts of food and drink. He wondered briefly what had come of the staves he'd gifted to the two Hobbits, but shrugged and turned to smile down on a sturdy boy, who held out a branch of _lebethron_ with its five-lobed leaves to him, his eyes worshipful. That confirmed in his heart that he'd been led by the Powers indeed to do the right thing, that day in Ithilien.


	37. The Editor

_For Soledad and Kitty for their birthdays._

The Editor

Fredegar Bolger took the large envelope into his study, calling over his shoulder to his aide, Budgie Smallfoot, who with his wife Viola "did" for him, "It's the next chapter of Frodo's book that he wishes me to go over for him."

Budgie laughed. "I don't know what Mr. Baggins would do without you to see to it he uses proper grammar and spells things correctly!"

Freddie smiled back at him. "Indeed! Can hardly write, it seems. Well, I'll undoubtedly be busy until lunch time, so if you will call me when that is ready."

"Shall I bring you anything, sir?" Budgie asked.

Freddie shook his head. "No. Viola already supplied me with a cup of tea, and brought me a plate of vegetable fingers and two biscuits just before the post-Hobbit arrived. I shall be well enough off until luncheon is served." He gave another professional nod of acknowledgment and shut the door.

Eagerly he opened the envelope and extracted the enclosed sheets of foolscap. He was growing increasingly excited, for Frodo had reached the portion of his tale in which the Fellowship was traveling through the Mines of Moria, a period in which apparently something terrible happened, and Freddie wished to learn precisely what that horrible experience had been. He set the stack of papers down upon the desk, and sat himself in his desk's chair. His red pencil with which he could make corrections lay to one side, alongside the blue one with which he made comments on what he'd read. In actuality he rarely used the former, for Frodo rarely made mistakes in his spelling or punctuation, much less in his choice of words. No, his interest was mostly in what precisely had occurred to his relatives who'd left the Shire to take the Ring away from it while he'd stayed at home, mistakenly believing that he'd chosen to remain "safe."

He picked up the blue pencil and tapped its blunt end against his teeth as he began to read. _"The company of the Ring stood silent beside the tomb of Balin…."_ Soon he dropped the pencil onto the surface of his desk, from which it rolled unnoticed to the floor as he clutched at the desk's surface. Goblins—or _yrch_, as Legolas named them—and trolls that tried to skewer his cousin with spears, and then something else, something more sinister, something of fire and shadow….

And then the desperate race across the narrow bridge of Khazad-dûm, and Gandalf's terrible last stand against the Balrog…. As he read tears sprang unbidden to his eyes, and Fredegar Bolger found himself crying out, _"No!"_ along with Frodo as Gandalf fell.

There was agitated knocking at the door that brought him back to himself. Budgie was calling out, "Freddie! Freddie! Are you all right?"

Freddie had to shake himself back to the present, and called out in a voice he realized was trembling, "I am well, Budgie. Do not worry for me. It was only what I read that startled me."

Budgie finally managed to open the door and looked in, growing relief in his eyes as he saw that his Master and friend was indeed unhurt. "It was only that you called out so, sir. It took me quite by surprise, and I was afraid that perhaps you'd had an attack of some kind."

"No, it wasn't for myself I cried out. But what Frodo wrote…."

Budgie walked into the room and looked at the manuscript over Freddie's shoulder, frowning as he read aloud, _"With a terrible cry the Balrog fell forward, and its shadow plunged down and vanished. But even as it fell it swung its whip, and the thongs lashed and curled about the wizard's knees, dragging him to the brink. He staggered and fell, grasped vainly at the stone, and slid into the abyss. 'Fly, you fools!" he cried, and was gone."_ He stood for a moment and shook his head. "But didn't Frodo say that Gandalf accompanied the four of them back to the edge of the Old Forest? How could he have done that if he truly fell into an abyss?" With that he turned to leave the room, commenting over his shoulder ere he closed the door again, "Your cousin certainly knows how to tell a thrilling tale, doesn't he?"

_But Frodo doesn't lie,_ Freddie thought to himself as he turned his attention back to Frodo's writing, turning to the last page of the chapter he'd been sent. _No, Frodo Baggins isn't given to making up stories. If Gandalf didn't fall there, there in Moria, then something worse must have happened instead._

He finished the last paragraphs, noting that Frodo's writing was unnaturally shaky at this point. No, what Frodo wrote—or didn't write—indicated that Frodo had been under terrible stress at this point in his journey, and Freddie was certain that whatever had happened to Gandalf, it must have been indeed terrifying and that as a result Frodo had felt terribly guilty, certain that he was to blame for the injury that the Wizard had taken.

At last Freddie sat back, pulled out a kerchief, and wiped his brow. Now, that was quite an adventure and no mistake! as Sam Gamgee would put it. He reached for the blue pencil and realized it wasn't there. It took a minute or two to find it where it had rolled under his chair, but at last he had it in hand, and began wracking his brain for some comment to write. But all he could think of was what Budgie had said. Shrugging, he began to write, _"A thrilling tale, my cousin! Now, to find out how it was that he was able to accompany you home to the edge of the Shire once more when all was done."_

As Fredegar Bolger packed up the manuscript with the blue-penciled comment for its return to Hobbiton, he hoped that Frodo didn't interpret that comment as indicating that he disbelieved the description of Gandalf's fall. In fact, he wished that, like Budgie Smallfoot, he could do so.


	38. The Refuge from the Storm

_Written for the LOTR Community "A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words" challenge. For Harrowcat and Claudia for their birthdays._

The Refuge from the Storm

The storm hit with a suddenness and fury that took all by surprise, causing those in the party traveling south to Dol Amroth to look up in dismay at the lowering clouds and pouring rain as bolts of lightning hit the surrounding high ground and peals of thunder rolled over the landscape.

_Crash!_ A tree atop the rise to their left burst into sudden flame—that which had not been blasted into pieces from having taken a direct hit of lightning, that is, and more than one horse neighed in terror and either reared up or turned tail and ran, no longer docile or answering to the reins. One of those that lost its head entirely was a young gelding being ridden by Bergil son of Beregond, the youngest of the King's guards present. It bucked and cried out in its alarm, and swerving sideways headed down a track none of the others had noted.

Only one steed within the party was sufficiently responsive to its rider to answer the order to follow the youthful horse and guardsman, and that was the one ridden by the King himself. Roheryn, after all, had many years of experience in traveling in all weathers through worse wilderness than one found anywhere within Gondor, and although he did not particularly like the current conditions he trusted his master sufficiently to go where directed.

"Bergil!" A single flash of lightning lit the landscape before them, and a huddled shape could be seen upon the sodden ground where the young Man had been swept off his steed by a low limb. Roheryn stopped just short of the tree as yet another peal of thunder boomed, and the tall Man who'd ridden astride him leapt to the ground and fell to his knees by the guardsman's limp body. A hand was placed against the pulse point on the throat, and after a moment the King relaxed somewhat. "He's alive—merely unconscious from the fall, apparently," he said aloud. Now he felt the back of the neck and down the spine, nodding with further relief as he noted no signs of any serious injury there.

One wrist was beginning to swell, and a knot was forming on the young Man's brow under a bleeding abrasion. "Concussion and either a break or sprain to the right wrist," the King concluded. "We must get him out of this rain, and as soon as possible," he added, looking about. There was a glimpse of a yellow light to be seen beyond the tossing trees, further down the track. "A house! We can take him there!" So saying, the tall Man scooped up his unfortunate youthful guard into his arms and rose to his feet, heading toward the source of the light as best he could, his faithful horse following behind.

(I) (I) (I)

Old Mithrellas closed the shutters to her windows against the sudden onslaught of wind and rain, muttering to herself as to how much damage the unexpected storm was likely to cause to her kitchen garden and the peach orchard. "Of all times for the Powers to decide what we need rain!" she grumbled. "Half the young fruit swept off the trees ere the blossoms are fair set, most like! And my new onions sets probably drowned ere they take fair root, I'd wager." Well, there was nothing she could do to protect either trees or garden at this point. All she could do was hunker down in the safety of her cottage and hope that the fixes to her roof made by her near neighbors a week past held against the wind and rain.

The sudden pounding on her door took her by surprise, and she clutched at her chest before realizing that someone had somehow come upon her steading in the storm and was in need of shelter from the unruly elements. She rose and stumbled to the door, and unfastening the bar opened it, only to have the wind tear it from her grasp and bang it fully open against the wall of her house. An enormous shape stood there holding a second form in its arms, both dripping from the downpour. The tall stranger stooped to enter through the low doorway, and brought his burden within her cottage.

"Please, my lady," her unexpected guest said, "my man here was swept off his horse and has been hurt. May we take shelter here until the storm clears away?"

In moments the injured Man was laid upon her cot, and she was fetching toweling and clean linens to see him dried and cleansed of what mud was upon him. "Is there a place I can stable my horse?" the other asked. "Then I will return with my bags and see to his injuries."

"There's a rough byre ahind the place, back by the jakes," she directed with a jerk of her thumb to indicate the general direction in which the building might be found. "Got no cow nor goat now to keep in it there for the nonce, but it should do well enough for your needs."

He gave her his thanks and went out, closing the door behind him. It was some time before he returned again, and she figured that he was seeing to it that the horse's saddle and bridle were properly removed and the horse rubbed down before he left it. One who was competent in caring for his steed, at least. Meanwhile, she saw the wound to the younger fellow's forehead cleansed, and set some comfrey to steep in a pannikin in front of the fire.

He gave a brief knock ere he reentered the cottage, and soon had the door properly closed and barred once more. He was quickly kneeling beside her, setting two bags down at his side, drawing the smaller of his bags to him and unfastening the complex knot that held it closed.

"You a healer?" she asked, surprised as she saw him draw forth a few small packages from the red bag he'd opened.

"Yes, I was so trained," he replied absently as he examined the wound she'd exposed. "Not as bad as I'd feared," he commented, giving the knot a gentle but competent touch. "Thank you so for cleansing it. And you've set comfrey to steep?" he added, meeting her gaze. "That is most helpful. I will add these, if you don't mind." He set one of the packages to the side and opened the others, and added some more herbs to the pannikin, murmuring to himself as he dropped in a pinch of this and a measure of that and stirred it with a clean wooden stick that she set before him for the purpose. They soon had both head and wrist poulticed and properly bandaged, and the Man saw his unconscious companion gently stripped of his wet garments and set the clothing to steam dry near the fire. Then he competently prepared a pallet for her to lie upon. "I will do well enough for the night in a chair, Mistress," he said. "But you should not be denied your rest because of our unplanned for visit."

"Him, he's a soldier," she said, her eyes on the uniform stripped from the young Man's body.

"Yes, a soldier of Gondor, as is his father. Two men of particular honor, the two of them have proved."

"But you wear no uniform."

"I, too, have fought for Gondor, and have worn her uniform in my day. And if she is threatened again I shall do so in the future. But my primary service is otherwise now. Have you eaten your evening meal as yet, little mother? You need not worry about us—we ate not that long since, and we have rations in our gear."

"But I saw no gear upon him."

He gave his companion a thoughtful glance. "Alas, I must admit that his gear has gone with his horse, and in the rain I have little heart for tracking the creature, which is young and inexperienced with the ways of storms. But I think I have enough for the both of us. I ask again, have you eaten?"

She had the unique experience of seeing this stranger preparing her a filling evening meal, supplementing it with jerked meat from his personal satchel that he added to the stew he cooked, along with certain herbs. "You carry cooking herbs as well as healing ones?" she asked.

He gave her a conspiratorial smile. "A true herbalist learns all uses for each plant, little mother. And my _adar_ saw to it that I was trained as a true herbalist. You should hear my beloved wife on the subject, for she studied under him even longer than did I!"

"It's married you are, then?"

He smiled, and by that smile she recognized just how dear his wife was to him. "Married? Oh, yes, little mother, I am now married, and happily so."

She gave him a quick appraisal. "I'd say she has a good husband, then," she responded.

He smiled even more fully. "How could I be anything other?" he asked simply. "Now, eat that and go to your rest with a calm heart."

It was not long before the young Man began to stir, and her tall guest rose to kneel by the low cot and saw to his care. _Yes, a born healer he was,_ she thought as she heard the reassuring tone in his voice and noted how competently he saw to the younger Man's needs. He was speaking with the young Man in the high tongue as easily as he'd spoken with her in the vernacular. _A healer, an herbalist, and a scholar, apparently_, she thought. Somehow this was reassuring, and she soon relaxed into sleep, soothed by the Man's humming as he oversaw the administration of a draught he'd brewed up for his younger patient. Somehow just having him within her house, as small as it was, made her feel safe and watched over.

(I) (I) (I)

The storm was past when she awoke again, and moonlight was flooding past the swiftly shredding clouds and slipping through the cracks in her shutters. There was a distinctive odor, and she realized that the younger Man must have been coaxed to use her chamber pot. He lay now with his eyes closed, visibly swallowing. "Him, he's dizzy?" she asked the taller healer.

"Yes," he answered, making certain the lid was closed over the vessel. "We're fortunate he's not become seriously nauseous. I'm allowing him to move as little as possible for the moment. The blow to his head was a glancing one, but not anywhere as serious as I'd first feared. He will be all right to travel after another day, I'd say. I grieve we will not be able to leave ere that, but shall see to it that you are well recompensed for your courtesy and hospitality."

He was examining her chamber pot. "I admit to being surprised by this," he said, lifting it slightly for emphasis. "It is quite old, and of Elvish make."

She gave a slight nod. "My Amdir, long ago he made a journey to Dol Amroth with some others from the village yonder. Brought that back for me, he did. Said as he found it in the ruins of the old Elf city t'other side of the harbor. Said as the Elves made beautiful things such as shouldn't go wanting for use. Said as I deserved beautiful things for taking the likes of him as husband."

He gave her that winning smile. "He was a wise Man, your Amdir, and one who knew the worth of a good woman."

She felt she was blushing as she'd not done for long years, perhaps not since that day when Amdir had returned from his journey to the Prince's city, bringing with him such an item as a chamber pot wrought ages past by the Elves. Then, thinking, she eyed her visitor in the firelight. "You are from the White City?" she asked. "You know Elvish work, and it's said our new King and Queen are both tied to the Elves. Most people wouldn't recognize Elvish work, I'd say, but you do."

He shrugged. "Yes, the stories are true. Our Lady Queen is own daughter to the Lord Elrond Peredhel, all blessings upon him for granting her presence to those of us who will remain throughout our lives here in Middle Earth. And for a time we will know trade with those Elves who remain in the hither lands, and many will know the blessings of Elven work, as well as Dwarven work and even Hobbit work. When I return to the capital I shall see to it you receive samples of each."

She gave a snort. "Not what you'll remember the likes of me when you are back among your own."

He gave a short laugh. "Do not count all of your chicks as cockerels ere they come of an age to begin to lay," he said, quoting an old adage to her. "Now I'd best get this emptied out into the jakes, as I doubt you will wish to use it until it's been cleansed, not after young Bergil there. Shall I bring in some extra water, think you?"

She shrugged. "The rain will have filled the cistern and the butts. And there's a tap in here to allow me to draw water from the cistern without needing to go out to fetch it. My Amdir, he sought to make things as easy for me as is possible."

"A good man he proved to you, I'd say. I will return soon, then."

When she awoke again she saw him dozing in the chair that had once been Amdir's, and on its stand stood the Elvish chamber pot, properly clean, she was certain. She smiled and returned to sleep.

(I) (I) (I)

When she awoke again water was already steaming over the fire, which had been properly stirred ablaze for the morning's cooking. The youth Bergil was awake, and gently rubbing at his eyes. She sat up and looked about. The older Man was gone out, most likely to see to his horse, she thought. Well, she needed the jakes, and so she'd go out and use them, even if it meant she'd have to rouse him from them so as to give her a proper turn. She simply did not feel like relieving herself in front of the younger Man, recovering or not from his fall from his horse. She smiled at Bergil and wished him a good morning, and rose to prepare her for the day.

She did not see the taller Man until she came out of the jakes. He was coming from the direction of the fields to the south of the village, leading a dappled grey horse that was still laden with a saddle that was knocked somewhat askew, its reins dark with wet and mud, leaves and twigs caught in its mane and tail. One of the saddlebags had been torn open and appeared to be empty, although the second appeared to be whole and properly packed. "You found his steed, then?"

He nodded. "Yes, and not badly off, I rejoice to say. There's a bit of a scrape to its off hock and another to its shoulder, but no serious damage done. It, too, will require a bit of time to recover from its fright. There was a bolt of lightning that hit a tree quite near us, and this one found that more than it had bargained for. Bergil was scraped off when this one tried to hide among the trees of your orchard—he held on quite well until they went under that last branch. I will see him into the byre by Roheryn, with your permission. I am sorry that we must impose upon you for a time, but until our other people find us it is best that we remain in one place and that Bergil not bestir himself more than is absolutely necessary. I set some water to heat for the morning's needs."

She gave him a smile. "Will porridge be acceptable to you and young Bergil?" she asked. "And we have some peaches that I put up last summer."

"That sounds delightful! And in return I shall see what there is I can do after last night's storm to set things aright for you."

When the porridge was ready she came out to find him refashioning the hinges to the gate to her poultry run, and saw that he'd gathered a number of fallen limbs and had set them into as orderly a stack as was possible near the byre. He came in and ate both swiftly and neatly, checked Bergil and appeared pleased with the young Man's condition, and went out again to continue such work as he could find was needed.

When he came in with an armful of wood to set beside the fire she shook her head with amazement. "I could become quite spoiled," she said, "having all of my work done for me in this manner."

He laughed. "It is good to have something physical to do," he assured her. "I feared I should forget how to do such things, so long have I dwelt within city walls."

After nuncheon he went out again, and she found him kneeling within the kitchen garden, examining the young plants and doing what he could to see them cleared of the storm's debris. She joined him for a time, concerned that he might do more damage than good; but he proved to be knowledgeable about such things as seedlings, and she saw no signs that he was pulling up young lettuce mistaking them for weeds or any such mistake. At last she left him to it, and went in again to find the younger Man sitting up, glad for her company.

It was late afternoon when she heard a hail from the orchard, and she went to the lane between the trees to greet a small company of about five soldiers. "You looking for a tall Man and a second little more than a boy?" she asked. "They arrived here at nightfall in the midst of the storm. The young one is sporting quite the bruise to his head, but will be well soon enough. The older one has been caring for him, and says he ought to be able to rise on the morrow."

"Our Lord was unhurt, though?" asked the one who appeared to be in charge.

"Oh, yes. He's out in the kitchen garden, seeing to it. Seems what he knows what to do with the young plants."

One of the soldiers shook his head. "Trust our Lord to be working in a garden," he said. "Who would have ever imagined the likes of him being so fond of gardening?"

Three of the five left again, while two remained, although on orders of the tall Man they went into the village to take a room for the night. One returned with provisions to replace what the Lord and his soldier had eaten and with grain for the horses, and from what she could tell one or the other remained outside the steading on guard throughout the night.

Seven Men arrived the next day, leading an extra horse for young Bergil, as the dapple grey was deemed in need of more time to recover from its own injuries. The tall Man again thanked her for her hospitality and kindness, and offered to pay her for allowing them to stay with her, but she would not accept it. "With all what you've done, how could I accept more?" she asked. "No, go your way, and may you rejoice to return to your wife again."

He smiled at her. "Oh, I always rejoice when I see my beloved Lady," he assured her. "And at least I will be able to return Bergil to his father little worse for the wear."

She laughed and gave him a familiar swat to his backside, and he left, mounting his horse with a wonderful grace. In moments they were gone down the lane between the trees, and she went back to look about the place, amazed at how neat and clean all was, the yard swept, fallen limbs drying for firewood, the hens contentedly pecking the ground behind the renewed gate to their run, safe from fox and other predators, and the plants in the kitchen garden all standing straight and green, each one she would swear several inches taller than it had been before the storm. Her unexpected guest had indeed left things far better than he'd found them!

(I) (I) (I)

Some six weeks later she was sitting in her door yard plucking a foul for her dinner when a small cart came down the lane. Surprised, she rose and approached the place where the lane emerged from the overarching limbs of the orchard. "You are Mistress Mithrellas, the widow of Amdir the orchardist?" the carter asked.

"Yes," she said. "You seek me out?"

"Yes—I was given a cartful of goods I was to bring to you."

"Goods, for me? But why?"

"I was sent by the King, Mistress. He told me that you were promised samples of workmanship from the various races and peoples who have allied themselves with Gondor, in thanks for the hospitality you showed to him and to his guardsman when the younger Man was injured in a storm some weeks ago. Shall I carry them into your cottage for you?"

She stood, paralyzed with shock, as he pulled back the heavy canvas that served as a tarp over the back of the cart and began carrying items into her house. There was a proper bedstead with two mattresses upon it, new linens and blankets far finer than she'd ever possessed; two cooking pots and metal spoons and ladles she was told had been made by the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain; a set of mugs that came all of the way from the Hobbits' Shire, from the land of the _Cormacolindor_; a table of finely carved _lebethron_ that came from Eryn Lasgalen; and a beautifully made basin and ewer set that had been brought to Gondor by the Queen Arwen from her father's home in Imladris.

"It was made by the High Elves," the carter said proudly as he set the ewer within the basin in place on the wash stand. "The Queen was insistent that you should be gifted with this in particular, for succoring her husband and their guardsman. She loves our Lord King so very much, you see."

She could barely speak as he took his leave, but he was smiling as he drove away, realizing how overwhelmed the old goodwife was by the gifts sent to her from the White City. Only after he was well gone did she return into the cottage to examine each item. Most of it was proper to its new home, save for the ewer and basin, those and the table. Those were of the most exquisite workmanship imaginable. And although they didn't exactly match the chamber pot, yet they managed to go well with it!

At last she found that the cottage could not hold her gladness, and she went outside, looking about her again at all that the tall Man had set right in the day he'd remained in her house. She wandered over to the low fence that surrounded her kitchen garden and looked down at the neat rows of plants—onions and tomatoes, marrows and peas and turnips, remembering how she'd knelt by him as he'd labored over her storm-tossed garden and set all aright once more. "The King—that was no mere Lord, but the King's own self! Who could have thought that the King was a healer, an herbalist, a scholar, and a gardener—and such a good Man?"


	39. The Kobold's Pay

_Inspired by the LOTR Community's "A Picture's Worth a Thousand Words" challenge. For Thundera Tiger and AnnMarwalk for their birthdays, with my thanks to both for both pleasure and inspiration._

The Kobold's Pay

Frodo Baggins sat on the bed in the room that had been his since his parents' deaths, his hands folded in his lap, his expression enigmatic as he examined his beloved cousin Merry's face. Sixteen-year-old Merry sat in the chair by the desk Frodo had inherited from his mother, his own expression rebellious. Here he'd been bragging to Frodo as to how clever he'd been, and it was plain that Frodo didn't agree.

"You admit that you stripped her berry bushes?" the Baggins asked, his voice studiously neutral.

"Well, yes," Merry said, his tone defensive. "But she had plenty of berries!"

"Little good how many berries she might have had did her when you admit that you took them all except for the little she has picked over the past week since they first began to come ripe," Frodo said.

"But she's always been so stingy with her raspberries!" It was obvious Merry was intent on convincing Frodo that he'd somehow been forced into acting as he'd done.

"And what else does Missus Goldenthatch have to sell or trade for any other goods she might need?" Frodo asked.

"But you never got on with her all that well when you lived here, back before you went to live with Bilbo!"

"No one has ever gotten on well with her in all of the time I've known of her," Frodo agreed. "But that is no reason to believe that you have the right to strip her of her livelihood. I repeat, Merry—she has no other thing she can easily sell or trade in order to provide herself with anything else she might require, particularly as she's now quite elderly and can barely weed what garden she's planted. I saw her in Bucklebury as I waited for the ferry, you know. Her hands are all gnarled, and her back is stiff with pain. Her lads all live now in the North-farthing, which leaves her with no one near to hand to help her. If she's run you lads out of her garden, it's been with good reason. Bilbo and I've been buying a good deal of her raspberry jam for the past few years and paying a good price for it—it's the least I can do to help make up for the deviling I gave her when I was the most brilliant scrumper in the region, after all. And, yes, she grows the best raspberries in the whole of the Marish, but even that does not give us license to take all she has. I'm not trying to tell you not to scrump at all, Merry, but remember that those with smallholdings such as Marshsweet Goldenthatch lives on often barely can grow what they need for their own use, never mind to satisfy the cravings of greedy teens and tweens."

Marshsweet Goldenthatch lived alone in the Marish, a proud Hobbitess who'd never accepted charity from anyone, not even when her husband died young, leaving her alone with three wee lads to raise on her own. Her parents had foretold calamity should she marry Boddo Goldenthatch, and she refused to allow them the satisfaction of broadcasting far and wide as to how they'd been proved right. So, she'd planted an extensive kitchen garden each year, kept a few sheep with exceptionally fine wool, and cared for her raspberry canes, managing to scrape by year after year on the proceeds of her sales of yarns and threads and her beautiful pots of raspberry jam, which were much praised and prized across the breadth of the Shire.

Merry tried one last time to explain how he felt justified in raiding the Goldenthatch raspberries, but Frodo was obviously not going to accept any such rationalization, and at last the teen went still. Frodo Baggins had once been known as the worst scrumper that Brandy Hall had ever produced, but he'd stopped doing so after one too many raids on the Maggots' mushroom patch had led to him being run off Bamfurlong Farm by Farmer Maggot's dogs. He'd become a reformed character, Merry knew; but Merry also knew that many of those who'd been victimized by Frodo's gang had well deserved the raids they'd suffered, and he was certain that old Missus Goldenthatch was among them. Still, if Frodo decreed that she deserved recompense, Merry knew he would give her that. He might defy his parents at times, and even his grandparents on occasion, but Meriadoc Brandybuck could not imagine purposely disappointing his Baggins cousin who was so much an older brother to him. Somehow, he would find a means of making things right for her, even if he could not truly understand just why this was necessary.

He began by approaching her property from the rear and examining her kitchen garden. When he was younger the Goldenthatch kitchen garden was legendary for its variety and quality. But now there seemed to be so little! There were only five rows of carrots and the same of taters. How on earth did Missus Goldenthatch think she could make it through the winter on so few taters? And so much kale! What on earth would anyone do with so much kale?

And there were so many weeds. He thought on what Frodo had said about Missus Goldenthatch's hands being gnarled now, and of how much pain she might be experiencing. He remembered his Aunt Asphodel, the second of Grandda Rory's sisters, and how gnarled her hands became as she aged. She'd been a talented artist and seamstress in her day, and had taught Frodo to draw and paint; but in the years immediately preceding her death she'd not been able to grasp either a paintbrush or a needle anymore. Was that how it was with Missus Goldenthatch, too? Suddenly Frodo's objections began to hit home with Merry. If she could not easily grasp things with her fingers, then how could she hope to do a lot of things about her home and garden?

But what could he do? Well, he supposed he could begin by weeding, so he crept into the garden and began removing dandelions and vetch….

(I) (I) (I)

"Dodi," Merry began, "when you begin thinning your vegetables, may I have some of the plants you are thinking of taking out?"

Dodiroc Brandybuck, who had his own vegetable patch near the quarters he shared with his wife Violet, examined Merry's face with interest. "Are you setting up your own vegetable garden, Meriadoc Brandybuck?" he asked.

"I'm helping someone else," Merry temporized. "For Frodo," he added, knowing that Dodi had a soft spot for the young Baggins.

"Fred Oldbuck? He was never much good at keeping his garden up." Fred Oldbuck, whose parents had a shop in Kingsbridge, had been one of Frodo's close companions in the few years Frodo had been free to ramble about Buckland and the Marish, and had taken part in many of Frodo's raids on farms, gardens, glasshouses, dairies, and smokehouses throughout the farmlands in the floodplains of the Brandywine valley.

Merry realized that to Dodi it would make sense that Frodo would wish to see Fred make a success of his garden, so he simply smiled, expecting rightly that the older Brandybuck would assume his guess had been correct.

"Well, Fred certainly deserves our help," Dodi said. "As it happens, I'll be thinning out the potatoes tomorrow, and the cabbages are coming up far too thickly. Oh, and the parsley, too, and the radishes. If you'll help me with the thinning you can take as many young seedlings as you'd wish. But you'll need to be careful you don't kill the stems or roots, of course, if you wish to transplant them, see?"

Merry saw, and early next morning, when Dodi came out to work on his vegetable patch, there was Merry already waiting to help, a few light plant crates at the ready. Then, late in the afternoon the young Hobbit slipped off with his crates to the place where one of the rowboats the lads tended to use was concealed beneath the canopy of a willow tree, rowing to the west shore of the river where he cached the crates in a tumble-down shed on the edge of the smallholding farmed by the ferry Hobbit. Three days later he borrowed a low wagon and drew his plants to the lane behind the Goldenthatch garden, and once he was assured that Missus Goldenthatch was settled down to take a nap he set to work. By sundown there were two more rows of radishes, eight more potato plants set out, a single row of rose cabbages that hadn't been there at all at dawn, and sixteen parsley plants along the sunny side of a low wall. He'd also planted five tomato plants, replacing the rusted old frames where no plants had been placed this year with extras from Brandy Hall that hadn't been used in the glasshouse over the winter.

He was weary as he pulled at the oars to take himself back off to the eastern shore of the Brandywine, but felt surprisingly satisfied, for there was no doubt he'd done a good day's work. And behind him, when Missus Marshsweet Goldenthatch came out to tut over the meager garden she'd been able to plant this year, she found that the plants were green and thriving, and she could swear she'd not put in any t'maters, but there were five plants that appeared to have come up there under the south windows, just where she'd always grown them. How marvelous, that this year the t'maters had decided to come back! Now, this was a wonder, and no mistake! And how well the weeds seemed to be behaving—there were very few she needed to pull out. She was still smiling when she went inside alongside her old tortoiseshell cat to get them both some late supper before they both retired to the bedroom, where Puss curled up, warming the old Hobbitess's aching back, purring and soothing them both to a well deserved sleep.

(I) (I) (I)

The sixth and seventh tomato plants were not as far along as the first five, but quickly throve in the excellent soil beneath the southern windows of the Goldenthatch cottage. Now there were two rows of marrows and one of pumpkins, as well as four rows of maize on the northeast border of the garden. Runner beans made rich green tents on their leaning poles, and snap peas grew along the picket fence on the border of the yard, the fence somehow boasting a coat of fresh whitewash. Plus there was now a row of sunflowers beyond the turnips, and their stalks promised to grow tall and produce many seeds before the summer was gone. As Marshsweet Goldenthatch stood examining her garden in mid-July she couldn't help but wonder how this transformation had come to be. "Niver planted no sunflowers, niver in all me days," she said, shaking her head. "And who'd of believed as seven t'mater plants'd come up a second year in a row?"

A week later she was kneeling by one of those plants, a harvesting basket lying by her as she pulled the first of the ripe fruits from their stems.

"I must say, Missus Marshsweet, as it's a right fine garden as ye have this year."

She looked over her shoulder to see her neighbor standing the other side of the picket fence along which the snap peas grew, her dog and young son by her. Slowly she rose to her feet, rubbing at her back. "Isn't it, though, Anise?" she replied. "Although I must say as I've had fairly little t'do with it this season. What with the rheumatics in me back and my hands as painful as them is, I swear as I just couldn't do it up right what I usually do. But look at it! Have ye iver seen such a sight as these? Was thinkin' as a few of them t'mater plants as I put in last year made it through the winter, but I swear as I niver, niver planted none as give off t'maters as are the size of small plums! Now, there's no question as these is ripe as c'n be, and so sweet! But where'd such as this come from, you think?"

"Ye're sayin' as ye didn't plant all of this?" Anise responded. "Well, I wonder, is there another kobold loose in the Marish after all this time?"

"What's a kobold, Mam?" asked her son.

"A kobold, Elfsum? Oh, it's a creature as is full of mischief, till it finds as it's gone too far and feels as it must make amends. Once as it come t'that conclusion, it'll work right hard, doin' all as it can t'set things as right as possible, replacin' what it took or fixin' what it broke down. The kobold'll do all it can to help until it must go elsewhere or it figgers as it's made it up t'ye right and proper."

Elfsum shook his head. "Never saw no creatures in Missus Marshsweet's garden. Just a lad in Hall-"

But his mother was clapping her cupped hand over his mouth. "Be still now, Elfsum Riverbanks! Mustn't try t'give a name to a kobold or ye'll mayhaps drive it away betimes. And there's no question as Missus Marshsweet deserves what help as she c'n get this here year, right? Now, you take Blueberry there back t'the house and tell yer da as Missus Marshsweet could do with some help with her gate. Looks as if the hinge could do with some fixin'. Off with ye, now, lad!"

"And what do ye know about the likes of kobolds settin' gardens t'rights, Anise Riverbanks?" demanded the older Hobbitess as the young lad, his lips set in a pout, drew the dog away, saying, _"Come on then, Blueberry," _as he headed for home.

Anise shrugged, although her eyes were twinkling. "Ye'll member some years back, after some three years when we was all bein' driven t'distraction by them scrumpers as took everthin' as grew sweet or rich, when it was the opposite an' instead one was comin' in quiet-like, weedin' the vegetables and whitewashin' the stones along the garden borders? Well, Evan an' me, we decided as it was a kobold, and we was both surprised and delighted t'learn as one'd decided as it owed us recompense. Ours come back some years in a row, harvestin' our tomatoes for us and all. Oh, we was glad as c'n be for our kobold, for with some time to spend on one another we finally was able to come by Elfsum there. Best gift as the kobold give us, time to love one another as we both deserved."

"It's a fool name as ye give the lad," Marshsweet commented, "namin' 'im fer Elves. Ain't nonesuch in the Shire, I'm a-thinkin'."

Anise glanced back toward her place, and gave a knowing smile. "Don't say no such thing near my Evan," she warned. "Him's lived here on this land all his life, and him says as the footpath 'cross the back pasture where Butter 'n' Cream graze most days was made by the Elves. Men may of built the Road, and Hobbits and Dwarves and Rangers use it; but it's Elves as made most of the footpaths an' some of the bridle trails through the Shire. And we saw Elves watchin' over our kobold several times, though I doubt as him saw them back, and them was pleased with what him was a-doin'. I think as a good part o' why our blueberries and your raspberries thrive as they do is 'cause the Elves wanted t'make things better for us from what them saw our kobold doin' for us. So, it's as much for his sake as for that of the Elves what we named our son Elfsum, you see. And if'n yer kobold is close t'ourn, I suspect as ourn made certain as you was recompensed fer the berries as the scrumpers robbed ye of a month back."

Missus Goldenthatch wasn't convinced, but she didn't argue. And she set out to find a way to spy upon her own kobold, deciding she wanted to find a name for him, even though she had no desire to drive him away by naming him aloud. It took a time to catch the lad at it, for she had to forego her daily naps to be in a position to see him at work. She was surprised and humbled once she did, but she felt a warmth she'd not known for years once she'd realized just who it was who was trying to set things right for her.

(I) (I) (I)

"You sent for me, Grandda Rory?" Merry asked on entering his grandfather's study.

"Yes. Just what has managed to bring you to the attention of old Marshsweet Goldenthatch in the Marish?"

Merry felt his mouth go dry and the skin on his scalp and feet tighten. He'd been identified as the one who'd stolen her raspberries last year, and now she was going to see him brought to justice—was that it? "I don't know, Grandda," he managed to say. Then it all came out in a rush. "Oh, Grandda, I'm so sorry, but I scrumped her berries last summer. But I swear that I did my best to square things—Frodo insisted I needed to do so!"

Old Rory had an odd smile on his lips. "You scrumped her raspberries, did you, and Frodo insisted you make things right? So, that explains it!"

"Explains what?" Merry asked, confused. It appeared that the Master of Buckland wasn't upset with him after all, but he couldn't think why else Missus Goldenthatch would bring his name up to his grandfather.

Rorimac Brandybuck shook his head, his expression growing gentle and fond. "She was a tough old bird, and far too independent for her own good at times," he said. "I'll admit this now, Merry, but don't let it convince you that it means I condone the scrumping our lads are prone to. You see, when we were younger, my brothers, sisters, and me, we used to go scrumping in the Marish, too, the same as the teens do now. And my sister Primula just loved raspberries, so she'd sneak off to the Goldenthatch place to eat her fill once the berries came ripe. Oh, but Missus Marshsweet would complain to our dad about it, and more than once!

"Now, as you undoubtedly have been told several times, Primula and Asphodel were both gifted needleworkers, and as she grew better at woolwork and knitting, Primula would do anything to get hold of the best threads and yarns she could find. And the best wool in the East-farthing is that produced by Marshsweet Goldenthatch. For years Primula wouldn't buy any wool if she knew that it came from the Goldenthatch sheep, considering how much trouble her scrumping of those raspberries had cost her, but then she decided that she wanted to make a knitted blanket for our first child, your Grandmother Gilda's and mine, your father Saradoc. So at last she humbled herself to approach Missus Goldenthatch to purchase enough yarn to make it. She apologized for what she'd done, and she offered far more than the yarn was worth to purchase enough to make her blanket. And she brought her some tomato plants for her kitchen garden. Missus Goldenthatch gave her just the yarn she'd asked for, and Primula made the blanket she'd wanted to make, the same one you used to be wrapped in when you were a bairn.

"Well, the next year a bundle arrived at the Hall for Primula, and it was full of the same amount of yarn as she'd bought the year before. There was a note with it saying that considering that Primula had paid twice as much as it was worth for the yarn she'd purchased a year earlier and the wonderful yield of the tomato plants she'd given to Missus Goldenthatch, Missus Goldenthatch felt that she owed this yarn to Primula. So Primula made a shawl of the yarn, and dyed it a gorgeous soft blue, and on her birthday saw it in a parcel set on the Goldenthatch stoop. So the next year, if there wasn't another measure of yarn sent to Primula, and even more this time! In the end Primula did a woolwork blanket that was more than big enough to cover any bed you can imagine, even the one that it's said the Bullroarer used to sleep upon, and slipped it onto the Goldenthatch stoop at Yule. That was the last Yule before Primula and Drogo died.

"When Frodo was making his amends in the Marish for the damage he'd caused to many smallholders with the scrumping he and his gang did, we received several skeins of yarn each year from the Marish, but with no notes attached. We didn't understand why we'd gotten them until after Frodo left with Bilbo. At that time the yarn stopped coming."

He paused, and looked over to the dresser in which the records for the Hall were kept. On it lay what appeared to be a folded blanket of a rich, golden color. His eyes were now somehow sad and proud at the same time. "Marshsweet Goldenthatch died a week ago, and her neighbors, the Riverbankses, have been seeing to her affairs. She directed that this should be given to you, whom she described as Meriadoc Brandybuck the Kobold. We didn't understand why, not until you told me what you'd done."

He turned to smile at Merry, now plainly proud of his grandson. "You have done well to listen to your cousin, for in my estimation you can find no better Hobbit in the Shire to learn from than Frodo Baggins. You've done very well, my Merry."

(I) (I) (I)

Years later, the bridal bed Meriadoc Brandybuck shared with his new wife Estella Bolger was covered with that golden blanket, finally removed from the cedar chest he'd inherited from his grandfather, one that had been crafted by Drogo Baggins.

"What a beautiful blanket!" Estella said, running her hand over the careful patterns worked into it so long ago by Primula Baggins. "However did you come by it?"

Merry smiled. "It was a wedding present, one given me in anticipation of this day, jointly by a Hobbitess who used to live in the Marish and by Frodo."

And he never said any differently to anyone who ever asked.


	40. Comfort in a Moment of Grief

_Written for the LOTR Community "Lost and Found" challenge. For Linda Hoyland and Fiondil. A true drabble._

Comfort in a Moment of Grief

As Aragorn fell exhausted upon the cot set for him in the tent raised upon the Pelennor, he felt again the pain of loss engendered by Halbarad's death. His first friend among his own people, his almost-brother, was lost, having made himself a target by insisting on carrying Aragorn's banner in the battle!

_"Grieve not for me, you great silly!" _he seemed to hear murmured into his ear. _"Think on what you have found! You'll never be alone."_

Remembering the amazed worship he'd seen in Faramir's eyes as the young Man awoke from near-death, Aragorn again knew contentment, and slept.


	41. Grace Granted

_For La Prime, Illereyn, and Virtuella for their birthdays._

Grace Granted

Elso Twofoot led his young granddaughter Rosemary across to the Party Field. "Since you and your mum will be stayin' with us for a time, it's probably best as you get t'know what's what here 'round the hill. Us Twofoots have lived here on the Row for at least eight generations, ever since the Row was dug, and we've always lived in Number Two. Now, _that's_ now the Party Tree, although it wasn't when me old dad was young. Then the Party Tree was an oak, the largest oak, it's said, in all of the Shire. And a fine tree it was, and quite beautiful, my granfer tol' me, at old Mr. Bilbo's last party, all lit up with lanterns tied on and such."

"What happened to it?" the child asked.

Elso's mouth went tight. "Lotho and Sharkey happened, that's what. Lotho Sackville-Baggins what was. Bought Bag End up there," he waved at the windows halfway up the Hill for emphasis, "from his Cousin Frodo and took t'lordin' it over all the Shire as if it now made him King of the world. Brought in a bunch o' Big Men as an army and tol' all the Hobbits what was then as him was the Chief and they all had t'do what him told 'em. It was a bad time, the Time o' Troubles. They was always a-cuttin' down trees and burnin' down many o' the inns and diggin' out holes and a-tearin' down folks' houses just t'be mean!" He shook his head. "They even dug out the Row! Moved my granfer and all t'other side o' the village to some awful houses built by them Men, an' if they wasn't terrible!"

"But Number Two is back now!"

"Yes it is, and that's cause of the Travellers comin' back when them did and settin' things back t'rights. Mr. Frodo and Mr. Sam saw the holes dug back in and fixed up good as new—even better, cause now we have good floors an' better walls 'tween rooms, or so me dad tol' me. Anyways, Lotho hated ever'thin' as had t'do with his Cousin Frodo and old Mr. Bilbo, so him ordered the Party Tree cut down and left t'rot. It took weeks t'have it proper cut up into lumber once Sam Gamgee was a'seein' t'things bein' cleaned up, like; and my dad said as the trunk was never dug out but was cut right t'the ground in the end, for it was far too big for grubbin', don't ya see. It was a right ol' tree, and my dad said as Mr. Frodo tol' him one day as it had been there since afore the Shire was the Shire, even. Mayhaps had begun growin' in the days o' the Kings of Cardolan an' Arthedain, afore the days of Arvedui Last-king! Him and my dad tried countin' the rings, as that's how one tells how old a tree is, don't ya know, but my dad lost count somewheres around two thousand.

"Anyways, _that_ tree's an Elvish tree from a place called Lórien what ain't there no more, or so them tells me."

"Why's it not there no more?" Rosemary asked.

He shrugged. "Somethin' 'bout a war down southaways," he answered. "The Travellers, them was involved, although I can't say proper how, but all tell as somehow Mr. Sam Gamgee an' his Mr. Frodo was both right there at the center of it all. Anyways, it's all long past now, and now the King's come back and all is good, and most special as the Mayor an' the Thain an' the Master is all the King's particular Friends!"

"So, what kinda tree is this?" Rosemary asked.

"It's called a mallorn, or so the Mayor tells us. Beautiful, ain't it?"

The little lass nodded, smiling at the silver tree with its golden leaves. "How come we got this one now?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Mr. Sam, him planted it when him got home, after the old Party Tree was took away. Just a little silver nut, it was, too! But did it grow, and fast! But, then all the new trees as was planted back then grew fast, so my dad and my granfer both tol' me. The Mayor tol 'em both as the Lady'd blest the Shire and the trees, and him had a box o' dust as him used t'do the blessin' with. His Mr. Frodo come down and helped him with the plantin', although I don't think as Mr. Frodo did a lot o' the work. Somethin' 'bout him not bein' in the best of health, there was. My old dad said as Mr. Frodo was a-holdin' the box for Mr. Sam whilst him dug the hole for to plant that silver nut, and him opened the lid, and some of the dust was blowed out on the breeze across the field.

"Now, we've always had some mushrooms as'll grow in this field, but ever since that day there's a lot more, and some right special ones as don't grow nowhere else in all the Shire. They grows over here, see?"

Rosemary crouched down to examine the indicated mushrooms more closely. "I never seed ones as was that kind of goldy-yellow," she said, her little brow wrinkled by her contemplation.

"Nor have any of us, not nowhere but here in this portion o' the Party Field," agreed Elso. "We calls them Mr. Baggins's Buttons, for there's a story as Mr. Baggins lost his brass buttons tryin' t'escape from goblins in the mountains. But I'm not certain as to which Mr. Baggins it was, whether t'was Mr. Frodo Baggins what was one o' them Travellers, or old Mr. Bilbo, the one as used t'be called old Mad Baggins, although you'd best not ever call 'im that anywheres the Mayor or his family can hear it. They are all very protective of old Mr. Bilbo's reputation, they are. Anyways, these are about the best mushrooms as grows anywhere in the whole Shire, but there's rules for pickin' 'em. You can't take more'n a modest bowl for each one in the hole, and no more than once a week for each family. You have t'leave enough for others. Those is the rules as Mayor Sam laid down for 'em. Said as they're a part o' the grace offered us for Mr. Frodo's sake, and we mustn't trespass on that grace or we might just lose them altogether."

"But who is Mr. Frodo?" she asked, looking up to search her grandfather's face. "I've never heard tell of him."

He straightened. "Him used t'live up there in Bag End, up high on the Hill. Was old Mr. Bilbo's ward and heir. T'was Mr. Bilbo's dad, Mr. Bungo Baggins, as dug out Bag End for when him got married t'Miss Belladonna Took, one o' the Old Took's three daughters. Mr. Bilbo never got married, so him chose his Cousin Frodo t'adopt. All as knew Mr. Frodo say as him was about the best Hobbit as they ever knew, honest, and fair as fair. Mayor Sam worked for Mr. Frodo as his gardener then, he did, and lived down on the Row with us, there in Number Three, with his sisters and his old dad, what they all called the Gaffer. A fine gentlehobbit Mr. Frodo was, my dad used t'say, always a-helpin' anyone anywhere near the Hill as might need any aid at all. But after the Travellers come back, Mr. Sam got married to Missus Rosie, and they lived in Bag End with Mr. Frodo till him went away."

"Where'd him go?"

He gave a twisted smile. "Can't rightly say. At first him was as busy as Mr. Sam and Mr. Meriadoc Brandybuck and Mr. Peregrin Took, afore them was Mayor, Master, or Thain, in helpin' make things good again. Mr. Frodo even worked as the deputy Mayor for a time, takin' over for old Will Whitfoot, what was Mayor afore Mr. Samwise. My granfer even tol' me as there was hopes as him would be elected Mayor hisself, but he decided not t'run after all. But him rode off one day with Mr. Sam, and although Mr. Sam come home to be the Mayor, Mr. Frodo didn't. They say as him went with the Elves, and could do so cause of what him did in that war of theirn. Mr. Sam says as Mr. Frodo earned a good deal of grace for what him did."

He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then leaned down to whisper in her ear, "But I don't think as him's all gone. Oh, him don't live there no more, and I never seen him proper, not ever in my life. But there's glimpses of a tall Hobbit—oh, not so tall as the Master nor the Thain, mind, but tall enough—t'be seen watchin' over the Shire from that bench up there by the door t'Bag End. Him used t'sit there most ever' evenin' t'watch the settin' of the Sun and the risin' of the Evenin' Star. Was right fond o' the Evenin' Star, my dad tol' me when I was little. And if'n anyone takes more'n their proper share of them mushrooms, them feels as if there's someone as knows 'bout it and is sad for their greed. So you can eat one or two when you're a-goin' 'cross the field, an' bring some home if'n yer grammer sends ye off t'fetch some for dinner. But don't ever, never get greedy with 'em, see? It just ain't right!"

(I) (I) (I)

When that evening her grandmother sent her off to do just that, Rosemary did her best to do as she'd been bade, bringing just enough home for each member of the family to have a modest bowl of them, and in looking up at the bench by the door to Bag End she could have sworn that a tall, slender Hobbit she'd not seen anywhere about Hobbiton was sitting there with a pipe in his hand, and that he was smiling at her in approval, although the next moment he wasn't to be seen. But all the time she dwelt on the Row she felt safe, knowing that there was a tall, kindly Hobbit who saw to it that those on the Row were guarded, and she never had a single nightmare.


	42. Plans for a Future Yule

_Written for the LOTR Community Yule Exchange challenge. For Cathleen._

Plans for a Future Yule

When Merry found Pippin at the Golden Perch, the young Took was smiling broadly. "You came to meet me!" he exclaimed. Immediately he was signaling for the innkeeper to bring his cousin a beer. "Master Littlesmial—one for the Son of the Hall here, please!"

"Meet you?" demanded Merry. "You were supposed to arrive at Brandy Hall three hours ago! Your mother is fit to be tied! Aunt Lanti's storming all over the place complaining about how irresponsible you've become in the past few years, and it's all Mum can do to convince her not to send out your dad and mine to find you!"

"But you knew where I'd be," Pippin responded, and he took a large sip from the mug in his hand.

"As does your da, Peregrin Took. And you know how he'd be once he came upon you in the common room here."

Pippin's face soured. "Oh, indeed I do. His mouth would go all twisted, as if my name had that sour taste to it. It's about the only way he looks at me at all anymore."

"If you'd only pay attention when he tries to involve you in Took family business—" Merry began, but Pippin didn't allow him to finish.

"And why do I want to get involved in all of that?" he asked. "Da is hardly ready to kick the bucket any time soon, after all."

"But you could help him."

Pippin gave a bitter laugh. "How am I to help him, Merry? He doesn't really want help, and any suggestion I do make he discounts with statements such as, 'You will know better when you are older.' He told me that I could organize the back store rooms, so I set to, intending to see them sorted out. But as soon as I started work he sent Ferdi in to help, only it appears that Ferdi was told to see to it that it's all organized Da's way. How am I to accomplish anything of worth when I'm not allowed to do anything without somebody standing over me telling me how to do it? He still treats me as if I were just twenty, and I'm twenty-seven now!" He drained his mug, and held it out to the server when he arrived with Merry's drink in hand.

The server, however, did not take it. "I am sorry, Master Took," he said. "but Mister Saradoc has forbade us to serve more than five mugs in an evening to those not yet of age."

Pippin started to protest, but stopped as his cousin prodded him in the chest with an elbow. "Forget it, Pip," Merry advised. "My dad's had this limit for those who aren't of age since before I became a tween, and he's not going to be happy if you browbeat Elno there into giving you what you think you want."

"What do you mean, what I _think_ I want? I _know_ I want another beer!"

"Why? So you can demonstrate to your father that you are truly as irresponsible and careless of your health and safety as he imagines you to be? Now, did you stop by Bag End as you said you would?" He nodded a dismissal that Elno responded to swiftly.

"Yes, and Frodo wasn't there. Sam says he decided to drive up to the northern borders of the West-farthing for some reason he wouldn't say before he headed east toward Buckland. He rented one of the traps from the Green Dragon, I believe. Probably Baggins family business, if I know our Frodo."

"Is Frodo still studying Bilbo's maps of the lands east of the Shire?"

"Yes—he's had one that follows the Road east to the Misty Mountains on his desk all this month, although Sam says that he doesn't see any indication on it of where Rivendell might be. You do think he'd go there first, searching for Bilbo, don't you, Merry?"

"Yes, I do. I mean, if Bilbo were to insist on revisiting some of the places he's been to before, the two places we know he wanted to see again most were Rivendell and the Lonely Mountain. And if there's someone who probably could tell anyone where to find Bilbo, I suspect it is Master Elrond. Bilbo appears to have respected him a good deal."

"Yes, and he liked it there. Bilbo always tended to favor the Elves from what I could see."

"I wouldn't be the least surprised to learn that Bilbo's been staying there, really."

Pippin nodded his agreement, and looked down morosely at his empty mug. "So, you won't make them give me just one more half?"

Merry gave a sharp laugh. "And have Dad disappointed in me? No, I'm sorry, Pip, but I couldn't. I'll finish this, and we'll go."

Pippin sighed, and watched longingly as Merry downed his own mug of beer. Only as his older cousin began rebuttoning his jacket and drew on his cloak did the young Took finally stand up from his place, tying his scarf around his neck. "Is it cold out there?" he asked as he hefted his pack from the floor.

Merry shrugged. "It's still and frosty out there now. It's going to be cold crossing on the ferry."

"I guess I don't mind that much. I like looking at the winter stars."

Merry smiled as he led the way to the door. "Frodo's rubbed off on you that much, eh?"

Now it was Pippin's turn to shrug. "Maybe. Or maybe I just happen to like stars myself, whether Frodo likes them or not. It's mostly because the stars seem brighter somehow in the winter, though, I think. Like they were shining brighter to keep themselves warm."

Merry grinned at him as they exited into the inn yard. "Now, there's a thought. Do you think one would agree to come down and sit in one of our pockets to keep us warmer, too?"

There was just the moment to see Pip's answering grin before the door swung shut behind them. "As if a star would do that just for us, Meriadoc Brandybuck! Although one of them just might do such a thing for Frodo, I've always thought. Now, thinking of Frodo, what do you think he'll bring for us for Yule?"

"Who knows? Books, probably."

Pippin gave an exaggerated groan. "Not a book, surely? It's not as if he hasn't given both of us more than either of us ever truly wanted, after all."

"A map of the empty lands between here and Rivendell, then."

"At least that might be useful once we're certain that he's truly ready to leave."

"He'll be fifty next fall, Pippin, the same age Bilbo was when he left the Shire the first time. I don't think he'll wait long after that to follow him."

"I'm sure you're right there, Merry." Then, after a moment of walking down the lane toward the ferry, he continued, "What have you got for Frodo?"

"A new pack. A larger one than the one he uses now. I figure he can break it in before we leave."

"And what did you get for me?"

Pippin could just make out Merry widening his eyes. "And you think I'll just tell you what you're getting for Yule, do you, Peregrine Took? Oh, no, my dear cousin—you'll have to wait another two days the same as everyone else."

"I got Frodo a new water bottle. His old one has a leak in it."

"And how do you know that?"

"He was complaining about it last time he came to the Great Smial."

"And why was he complaining about it to you?"

Pippin shrugged defensively, fixing his gaze on the post where the ferry lantern hung. "It could be because I accidently jabbed a hole in it when I was visiting Bag End last spring, I suppose."

Merry sighed. "So, really you're repaying him a new water bottle and calling it a Yule gift, are you?"

"Well, I had to save my allowance for a few months to afford it."

"You didn't just lift one from the storerooms at the Great Smial, then?"

"And have one more thing for Da to be angry with me about? I may have a few faults, Merry, but I'm no thief to steal from my own."

Merry's voice gentled as he sought to assure his younger cousin, "I'm sorry, Pip. No, you've never been that. And I'm certain that Frodo will love a new water bottle from you."

Pippin brightened. "You really think so? I got it at the Lithe Days festival in Tuckborough last summer. The North Tooks had several very nice ones, you know." He squinted at the ferry. "Drat. We'll have to pole ourselves across, apparently."

"Tolo's busy tonight—it's his cousin's birthday, so he'll be staying at the farm. And you've never complained about us poling ourselves across before."

"I forgot to bring my gloves, and it's a lot colder now than it was when I went into the inn. Oh, but look, Merry—he's decorated the ferry!" He pointed to the lantern pole, where Tolo had hung a wreath of greens decorated with red and white berries.

"Yes, he does it every year. Where did you lose your gloves? I can't imagine your mother allowing you to leave the Great Smial without them."

"They were mittens. I left them in Frodo's study." Pippin followed Merry onto the dock, dropped his pack onto the ferry, and at a gesture from his cousin began untying the mooring line. "Mum just made them for me. They are red, with deer embroidered on the backs. And white pom-poms."

Merry had to swallow down a gasp of dismay. Eglantine Banks Took apparently had it in her head that if only she could keep her son dressed as a child he would remain one indefinitely. He could not understand it—when she was merely the wife of Paladin Took, farmer of Whitfield, she was as sensible as anyone he'd ever known. But now that she was the Thain's Lady she'd gone almost as strange in her way as had Lalia before her. She encouraged Pippin to behave as a child one moment, and was bemoaning his lack of responsibility the next. No wonder Peregrin Took did everything he could to escape the Tooklands as often as possible! Was it something to do with the Thain's quarters that caused their occupants to lose their common Hobbit sense? It was almost as bad as Aunt Rosamunda and the way she kept feeding Freddie until he had the proportions of a roopie ball!

He got the main pole in hand and gestured for Pippin to join him on the ferry's platform. Pip rolled up the line and hung it over the post set to hold it while the ferry was under way. Within moments they were in the current, with only the guide line holding them from drifting southward. Pippin grasped the second pole and worked to assist Merry—the faster they were across the Brandywine, the sooner they'd be able to reach the warmth of Brandy Hall.

But in the middle of the river Pippin paused and looked upwards. "Oh, Merry!" he breathed. "Look at how beautiful they are!"

Merry also paused in his poling, and followed Pippin's gaze. Yes, there was no question that the stars were spectacular tonight! "I do hope that Frodo's enjoying them, too," he said.

"I'm certain he is. He told Sam that he planned to drive straight through so as to be across the Bridge and into Buckland within an hour after sunset. He just might beat us to the Hall!"

"We can't let that happen!" Merry exclaimed. "Come on, lad—let's put some muscle into it!" Reluctantly Pippin obeyed, and they were soon across the river and tying up to the dock on the eastern shore. While Merry handled the mooring, Pippin dropped a few coins into the designated basket to reimburse Tolo for having to row across the river in the morning so that he could ply his trade during the day, and grabbing up his pack once more, he scurried off after Merry toward the ridge into which Brandy Hall was excavated.

As they reached the main doors to the Hall, a trap arrived, its driver muffled in a thick, warm brown cloak, and with a wooly hat on his head and a soft rug across his lap. "Oh, so you have come out to meet me!" Frodo called.

"Meet you? Hardly, Frodo Baggins! We just arrived from the Golden Perch, is all," Merry answered. "Had you come down the Stock Road you could have come across on the ferry with us."

"Ah, but then I might have missed watching the Swordsman as I drove," Frodo responded before turning to Horto, who usually served as door warden. "Hello, Horto! Are you ready for Yule yet?"

"And how am I to have time to wrap packages with all of the grand folk arriving at all hours?" Horto demanded. "Welcome, Frodo! Did you stop in Frogmorton or Whitfurrow for the night?"

"I had some family business in the far West-farthing to see to, so on the way back I stayed one night in Michel Delving, the second in Whitfurrow, and drove from there to here arriving tonight. I'd have preferred to sleep out, but it's been cold enough that I thought better of that idea in the end."

"As well you might. Oh, but here comes Gomez to take the pony and trap. Shall I help you with your parcels?"

"Better you than these two rascals." Frodo gave Merry and Pippin a significant glance. "Even Merry isn't too old to shake his package in the attempt to figure out what he's receiving, I've found."

Merry gave a mock-indignant squawk. "What?! I'll have you know I'm far too old to do such things!"

"Too old, perhaps. Mature enough to refrain from doing so? Not hardly, Meriadoc Brandybuck! Here, take my trunk for me. And you, Pippin, can carry my food hamper."

"And what delicacies has Sam sent that you haven't eaten yet?" Pippin was already rifling through the hamper until Frodo slapped his hand.

"That's enough of that, Peregrin Took! Behave, or I shall tell your mother that you deliberately left your new mittens in my study! Yes, I stopped at home briefly yesterday and found them there. Although I can't blame you for choosing to 'lose' them. Really, your mother should know better than red mittens with white pom-poms! The deer were actually a nice touch, but those pom-poms are far too much. Shall we go in, my beloved lads?"

With one hand on the shoulder of each of them, Frodo walked Merry and Pippin into the Hall, will they, nill they. Although they didn't truly mind, even seeing that Eglantine was all ready to sweep down upon her errant youngest child to berate him for lingering so long on the road. They knew that Frodo would see to it that she was placated and properly distracted so that Pippin wouldn't long suffer under her attentions.

Two hours later, watching Frodo standing with the Thain, the Master, and their Ladies, enjoying a glass of the finest wine in the Hall's cellars, Pippin suddenly shook his head. "Look at him, talking with them as if they were all of an age," he murmured. "And in an hour he'll be with us and the others in their thirties as if he were still in his thirties himself instead of almost fifty!"

He paused to sip at the goblet of wine he'd managed to slip from a server's tray. "This is good," he commented, briefly examining the color of the liquor in his glass. "Perhaps I should order it the next time I'm in Stock. Although the beer at the Golden Perch _is_ excellent. Oh, but how am I to decide?"

"Why not wait until you are there next before you make such momentous decisions?" Merry responded.

"I wonder—do the Elves of Rivendell drink ale?" Pippin took another sip. "I never heard Bilbo mention the ale there, although I remember him commenting on how good the mead was in Beorn's house."

Merry shrugged his shoulders. "I don't remember him mentioning beer or ale in Rivendell, either. I do recall he said he recommended their wine, though."

Pippin smiled with satisfaction. "Then I shall make a habit of drinking more wine this coming year. After all, if Frodo does what we suspect he'll do in September, then we'll most likely be finding out just how fine the wine in Rivendell is for ourselves, don't you think?"

Merry shook his head and gave a laugh as he removed his own glass from his lips. "Next Yule in Rivendell, then!" he pledged, and the two clinked their goblets together.

"May it be so!" Pippin agreed, and took still another sip from his goblet before going forward to claim Frodo's attention away from the grownups.


	43. The Standard Revealed

_Written for the LOTR Community Potluck challenge. For Cairistiona for her birthday._

The Standard Revealed

Elladan came to his sister's rooms intending to fetch the grey cloaks given to himself and his brother by their grandmother. Arwen had taken them to see them cleaned and refreshed, along with certain other garments that she knew they would want ere they set off to the south to join Estel for the last battles against Sauron and his armies. She'd also indicated that she had items that she wished to see taken south for her beloved, that when he should face the forces of Mordor he look the King he was intended to be.

The Elven cloaks lay side-by-side across a divan, the slanted sunlight of late winter bringing out the sheen of new leaves and silver glints as of running water from the weft threads. Nearby sat a watertight bag in which their sister had indicated she would pack garments for Aragorn, obviously packed tightly, its flaps properly deployed and its ties fastened. A stack of shirts for Elladan and his twin had been set with a number of underthings and new pairs of leggings upon a chest. But Arwen barely indicated awareness of her brother's arrival, for her attention at the moment was centered upon what appeared to be a roll of black stuff, wrapped about with cords of silver gilt. He was confused until he saw that emerging from the roll of fabric was a great staff of elm, at which time he took a deep breath.

"Then you have finished it at last?"

She gave a distracted nod. "Yes, and last night Boraënur fixed the two rings with which it is to be held to its staff as well as delivering to me the cordage to be used in fastening it when furled." She gave a deep sigh, still examining the bundled standard she'd worked on for so long for Estel's usage.

"I shall take it, then," he began, reaching out his hand toward the staff, but she pulled it away, her eyes fearful.

"No!"

Elladan was confused. "But surely I can deliver this to our brother," he said.

"You must not touch it now, Elladan! Only I may touch or carry it until it is delivered into the hands of the one intended to serve as Aragorn's first standard bearer."

Suddenly he understood. "Then you have foreseen-"

She gave a single nod to her head. "Yes." Her face was pale, but set with determination. "Halbarad and I have discussed this, and he is willing to chance the vision."

He grew still, his concern clear to be seen. "Halbarad? But Aragorn sees him as much a brother to himself as he sees Elrohir or me."

Again that single nod, and he could see the grief she felt. "Yes. I know. Halbarad knows. But if the first to bear the standard is likely to fall in battle, he wishes to take that hazard upon himself for his Chieftain's sake."

"Then you shall ride out with us to meet with the Dúnedain?"

She gave him a twisted smile, her eyes unnaturally bright with unshed tears. "It would appear that I must, Elladan. But I will entrust this to no one save to Halbarad himself."

(I) (I) (I)

A guard of eight accompanied the three children of Elrond when they left the bounds of Rivendell, Arwen heavily cloaked and carrying the furled standard in her arms protectively. When they were spotted by those chosen to go south with the Grey Company, there was quiet comment on the number of Elves in the riding, for it had been expected that only the sons of Elrond would go with the Men of the North to their Chieftain's aid. "There are few enough warriors left in the hidden valley to see to its defense should the Enemy send forces to lay siege to it," commented one of the older Men.

"Indeed," answered one of Halbarad's brothers, both of whom had indicated they would not agree to stay behind.

"They are come as escort only, and will be returning to the valley forthwith," Halbarad cautioned the rest.

One of the younger Men snorted. "And since when have the two brothers required an escort?"

"It is not for Elladan and Elrohir they have come," Halbarad said. "Three of the Peredhil have come forth this time, and one will return."

"But Lord Elrond is not among those approaching," one of the others objected.

But Halbarad's younger brother was shaking his head. "He did not say that Master Elrond came forth, only that there were three of the Peredhil in the party. It is the Lady Arwen who comes to bid her brothers and us farewell."

There was a general straightening of the riders as the rest sought to see the reclusive daughter of Elrond, she who had held the heart of their beloved Chieftain for so long. Only Halbarad's eyes were not upon the lady, but instead upon the roll of black fabric she bore. His face was pale, but set. He had accepted the hazard, and knew that it was very probable that he would not live to see his cousin crowned King. It was, for him, an acceptable sacrifice, although he knew that it would tear at the hearts of Aragorn and his brothers and other close kin. Silently he begged for the strength to endure what he must face, and an unseen Eonwë noted down his unspoken vow to bear this as far as he might for the sake of all of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth.

Arwen's face was also pale as she brought her palfrey near to him to lay the burden of the standard in his arms. "You are certain that you are full willing to bear this for the Dúnadan?" she asked before releasing it fully to his care.

He nodded solemnly. "I shall bear it proudly for him, my Lady," he said with a respectful bow of his head. "For his sake and for yours, and for the sake of all who desire to see the power of Mordor brought low at the last."

"Then take it, and know that the blessings of the Elves are upon you, and that prayers are uttered to the Powers for your sake." She gently relinquished it, and laid her gentle hand upon his head, then raised it so she could look into his face. She gave him a soft smile. "Ever has Estel drawn to him the loyalty of those of worth," she said quietly. "And certainly you are among the most worthy of those. Ride to the defeat of Sauron and all of his works, Halladan Halbalegion!"

_"Nasië," _he answered her, feeling an unfamiliar sense of power and joy fill him. "I will remain by his side ever for as long as is given me, sweet Lady."

Once the twin sons of Elrond had joined the company, Arwen gave her brothers a silent salute of farewell, and the two companies parted, the Elves returning with their Lord's daughter to Elrond's house once more, the Grey Company heading south, Halbarad fitting the staff for the standard into the fittings he'd had added to his saddle so that he could concentrate better on the road intended to bring them to Aragorn's side.

(I) (I) (I)

The first time Halbarad was asked to unfurl the standard was within the confines of the citadel of the Hornburg, there within the tower chamber where Aragorn had withdrawn with him and the _palantir_, intent on challenging Sauron himself. Aragorn tied his dark hair back and covered his face with a sheer scarf borrowed from one of the Rohirrim that his features not be clearly seen, and had Halbarad stand with his own face in shadow. A single candle lit the room, drawing only intermittent sparkles from the metallic threads and many gems worked into the standard, just enough to hint at the devices worked into the black cloth. The one item that was not at least partially hidden from Sauron's Eye was the Sword of Elendil, which glowed with its own innate challenge once the Dark Lord looked upon it and saw that the edge that had robbed him of his precious treasure an age ago was as keen now as it had been at the foot of Orodruin, if not even sharper. As for the hand that would wield that sword-it was well muscled and perfectly suited to the weapon, as if it and the sword had been in company for many ages of the Sun instead of only a matter of months!

The one to whom the sword was shown drew away at last, pondering on the hints given him of the person faced, the keen eye, the powerful hand, the as yet undeclared claim to the ancient dual realm of the Dúnedain hinted upon by the barely discerned banner….

Uncertainty gnawed at the Lord of Mordor as he contemplated what could be seen of his maimed hand.

(I) (I) (I)

_The clouds churned out of Mordor to blacken the sky offered no light to glint off of the pattern worked into the standard borne in front of the one who had declared himself Isildur's Heir, but the dead did not need light with which to make out the devices thereon. One of that dread host moved forward unheeding, drawn by sight of the depiction of blooming White Tree and the Seven Stars, and for the first time in over an Age of the Sun he remembered his name. Amerlik—his name had been Amerlik, and he had been among the first of those who fled behind his King, away from the wrath of Isildur, into the darkness of the cleft in which his kind had hidden since the day they were cursed. _

_ He would do anything at this point to keep that awareness of who and what he had once been, and to know the peace of having fulfilled his vows to assist the Sea Kings' people against Sauron's power. Oh, yes, he would follow this yet living Man, and raise his sword against those indicated to be his enemies. He wished only to be free, to remember the past and to look once more to a future that was not overshadowed by broken words and vows that had been shunned. For he knew that it was not so much the anger of Isildur that had trapped them all within this world when they ought to have been free to roam and hunt amongst the stars, but the mistaken belief that Sauron had been sufficiently powerful to protect them that had imprisoned them within the Dwimmerholt._

_ When the one bearing the standard turned to bear his banner behind his Lord, he who had once been Amerlik was close behind, still finding himself by the vague glimmer of the symbols worked upon the sable fabric as the light escaping from shuttered windows and barred doors were reflected by the gems and threads worked into it by the hand of the daughter of one of the wisest Lords of the Eldar remaining within Middle Earth._

(I) (I) (I)

Sephardion stood in the gardens surrounding the Houses of Healing with several of the other boys who remained within the City and who now primarily ran errands for the Healers. They were able here to look down upon the lands before the White City, but now it was not the verdant fields and orchards of the Pelennor they saw but instead a swirling mass of chaos as the battle raged before them. Even here high up in the city they had heard the challenge of the horns of Rohan as the unseen Sun arose beyond the Mountains of Shadow, and they had watched as dark shadows with golden hightlights fell upon Mordor's forces from behind and the companies of orcs and evil Men were overrun.

But it appeared that Mordor's captains had held certain surprises for just such chances, and a braying of brazen horns and a thunder of fell drums announced the arrival of a company of great _mumakil_, each bearing war towers and troops of archers and spearman who rained missiles from above and who drove the horses of the Rohirrim mad with terror. Then one of the Nazgûl, mounted upon one of the noisome great flying things, stooped upon what appeared to be the King of Rohan, and what was happening none could see clearly.

"Blasted wind!" cursed Garthil, brushing curls out of his eyes so he could see better.

"May it be cursed, for all that it has turned at least toward Mordor," Lasgon said, his eyes filled with dismay. "Look! The black ships come! The Corsairs of Umbar are nearly here!"

The others followed his pointing finger, and far closer than any had imagined they saw black ships looming out of the gloom. The wind grew in power, and not only did it speed the ships toward the Harlond, but it tore also at the looming clouds overhead.

"At last! At least a glimpse of sky!" Sephardion breathed, feeling at least some relief at seeing the threatening clouds being dispersed. If they were to be indeed defeated and the White City should fall, at least it should not be under the darkness imposed upon them by the Nameless One, but they should have the Sun herself as witness!

The greatest of the biremes bearing down upon the havens along the river had a great roll of black set high upon its main mast, and at least two Men within the rigging were working to see it loosed. Sephardion wondered if he should be able to recognize the heraldry it would display. As one who had been amongst the Citadel's pages, part of the lessons he'd received had been in recognizing the devices of Gondor's major and minor lords as well as those of many of the realm's allies—and enemies. He knew the banners of at least four lords of Umbar and five of Near Harad and two of Rhún. Would this be one of those he'd seen in his books?

"Sweet Valar!" whispered Garthil as half the banner fell open. "I don't think any enemy of Gondor would display that!"

The boys crowded more closely upon the wall, one of the smaller boys crowding under Sephardion's arm so as to see better, all craning for a view of the banner as it at last fell free to belly out in the wind. The relief at a glimpse of honest daylight was as nothing as to the shock and growing awe all felt now.

"Elendil!" Sephardion said, then shouted out, "Those are the emblems of Elendil himself!"

"Then does Elendil come to fight for us?" asked the smallest boy.

Lasgon gave a sound of disgust. "How? Do his remains not now lie in the Silent Street in the House of the Kings?" He looked out upon the wonder of Elendil's banner streaming from the mast of what ought to have been an enemy's ship. "No—someone else comes claiming his authority!"

Sephardion found himself nodding his head. "It must be the Heir to Elendil!"

But Garthil was shaking his own. "There are no heirs to Elendil and Anárion here in Gondor who might raise his banner!"

Sephardion and Lasgon shared a glance, and Sephardion hazarded, "There may be no heirs to Elendil and Anárion here in Gondor, but Gondor was not the only realm over which Elendil reined. Nor did he challenge the right of his sons to rule here in the south, for he had his own realm in the north, to which Isildur intended to return!"

Garthil searched their eyes uncertainly. "From the north? From Arnor, you mean?"

Lasgon nodded, adding, "And Arvedui, the last King of Arnor, was married to the daughter of Ondoher, King of Gondor. His descendants have at least a possible claim to the Winged Crown."

The ships of the Corsairs of Umbar were pulling into the quays of the Harlond, and already Men were riding off of the flagship. The two Men up high in the rigging reached out and lifted the banner from its supports and dropped it down, and others caught it to fasten it to the staff of the standard bearer. It was lifted up to a tall mounted warrior, who quickly had it set into place in the supports for it on his saddle before spurring his horse down the gangplank to come even with his Lord, an even taller Man upon a powerful brown steed, a great gem like a star shimmering upon his forehead, another gem gleaming green upon his breast, a sword lifted in his hand that shone like a flame in the growing light as the clouds lost the battle for supremacy in the air.

There was a pause as the greater part of the mounted Men from the ship gathered about the Man with the shining sword and the banner his companion carried. With a cry that could not be heard by those upon the walls of the White City, the troop of tall, mounted Men, followed by a growing horde of armed Men on foot, rode from the river's side to join the fray, sweeping all enemies before them!

"Elendil! Isildur!" Sephardion and his companions called. "Elendil for Gondor!"

And by following the shining of flowering White Tree upon a sable background they could tell where the tall Captain of their unexpected defenders fought upon the battlefield.

(I) (I) (I)

The riding of the Dúnedain brought them to the center of the battlefield almost before they were aware of it. The majority of the orcs and Uruks had fled away, and they faced mostly Southrons and Easterlings, some fighting under their own banners and others behind the sigils of Mordor and the Morgul Vale. No one saw precisely who managed to get past the sons of Elrond, Halladan, Hardorn, and Aragorn himself to thrust a spear into Halbarad's chest, and no one could be certain as to which of those five brought him down. Aragorn himself caught the standard before it could fall, and Hardorn had it in hand almost before the rest of the Grey Company knew that their Chieftain's lieutenant had fallen. But there was no Man or evil creature left behind alive when the northerners rode forward, and already those behind them who'd come up the river on the black ships were gathering up the bodies of those who had fallen attacking the enemies of the West. These offered the few among the Northerners whose bodies they found greatest honor as they brought the bodies together, and treated that of the Dúnedain's standard bearer with grave respect.

"Istilmir! Istilmir of Pelargir! You have come!"

Istilmir turned from where he and his followers were fabricating makeshift litters from abandoned spears and cloaks to peer up at the mounted Gondorian who'd addressed him. "Lord Húrin? That is you? Aye, we came after all! But considering how unexpectedly we were succored, how could we do otherwise? Who would believe that just as we thought ourselves conquered by the Corsairs the Heir of Isildur would arrive to our aid, and with such a force as the Army of the Dead? Ah, but the Umbarians fled, gibbering with terror! And when the Heir of Isildur bade us accompany him to the defense of Minas Tirith, we obeyed!"

"He is the Heir of Isildur, then?"

"So we have been told."

"And who is this?" Húrin asked indicating the body of the tall warrior who lay, respectfully covered with his own grey cloak.

"We were told his name was Halbarad son of Halbaleg, and that he was the Steward of what remains of the Dúnedain of Arnor, second only to the Chieftain of their people. He served his Lord as standard bearer in the battle, until he died in the assault against those Easterlings who gathered here. There," he indicated the sword lying along the fallen Man's breastbone, "lies his sword. It appears that he slew his share of the enemy ere he fell."

The sword was indeed red with blood, and not his own. "A mighty warrior indeed to slay many foes while bearing his Lord's banner," Húrin noted. He looked down thoughtfully, and reached to remove a brooch he wore at the throat of his shirt. "Here—let this stand in place of the banner that has passed into another's hand," he said, dropping it into Istilmir's hand. With a nod of understanding, Húrin turned and called out, "Stretcher bearers needed here!" He bowed his head respectfully toward the fallen and rode off, looking for the next place where the services he'd been organizing might be needed.

Istilmir watched the Warden of the Keys ride away, then knelt to fasten the brooch, which bore the pattern of White Tree and Seven Stars, to the throat of the standard bearer's shirt as it had been worn by its previous owner. "Sleep well," he murmured. "Your Lord has been served well by you, and even now leads those who defend the city under the standard you bore. It has not touched the ground nor known any dishonor, and others gladly follow it to the defeat of the foe you came so far to fight." As the stretcher bearers summoned by Lord Húrin arrived, he advised them, "This one was well loved by the one who leads those who fight under the Banner of Elendil. Treat his body with all honor."

They nodded, and gently lifted Halbarad's body onto the litter and bore him away to the place set aside for those who had fallen in battle.

(I) (I) (I)

The Sun had set in glory ere Aragorn and his Men could come to the tents to which the bodies of the dead had been brought. Hardorn still bore Arwen's banner, and at a sign from his Chieftain he planted it in the dirt over which the tent had been raised, there at the head of the hastily erected bier on which Halbarad's body lay. His face and arms had been cleansed as well as could be done, and his hands had been folded over the pommel of his sword, whose blade was also cleansed. His lips were slightly parted as if in surprise, but there was no distress or fear to be seen in his expression. Aragorn, Halladan, and Hardorn leaned over Halbarad, their own faces tired, Aragorn's filled with tender grief as the three mourned their joint loss. "He always treated me as if I were as much his brother as the two of you," he said softly.

"Indeed," Halladan admitted. "He must rejoice at the great victory that we have won."

Hardorn looked down at his fallen brother, and said, "Look, Halbarad, for here is the standard you bore so proudly. I have brought it back to you, that it might remain by you at least for the night. The battle is won, even as you foresaw, and I have made certain that it remained by our Lord's side. Know peace, and assure our _adar_ that we will continue on until Sauron and his works are thrown down utterly."

Halladan reached down and touched the unfamiliar brooch that now fastened his brother's shirt. "Someone sought to honor him as your standard bearer, Aragorn," he commented.

"So it would seem," Aragorn answered, and smiled through his grief and exhaustion. "He will never give over bearing my standard, then. That is fitting."

But then the three of them turned, for someone was anxiously calling Aragorn's name. "No rest for those who have borne the worst of the battle, apparently," Hardorn said. "It would appear that the Grey Pilgrim requires your presence."

Reluctantly, the three Dúnedain left the tent, going out to learn what further need there was at this time for their Chieftain's presence. But in the light of the single lamp that lit the interior of the tent the White Tree bloomed and the Seven Stars glittered, blessing the one who had first carried it to indicate the presence of the Heir of Elendil and Isildur.


	44. The Ambush

_Written for the LOTR Community "Show, Don't Tell" challenge. _

The Ambush

There had been no movement in the brush or among the trees for quite some time, so the small flock of birds returning late from further south settled in the limbs of a stand of tall elms, most chattering as they tried first one roost and then the next, until at last all seemed satisfied for the evening. The woods went quiet as the light slowly dimmed behind the looming grey clouds that covered the sky.

A dog fox, resting in the mouth of his den, watched the birds as they flitted from branch to branch, but lost interest when it became obvious that none intended to alight upon the ground and that they intended to sleep soon. He rested his muzzle on his paws, and his eyes went half closed as he gave a slight snort. The breeze, which had been mainly from the east, changed, first coming from the north and then the west. As the clouds began to break apart the fox raised his head, his ears suddenly pricking alert, his nostrils flaring at the foul stench of approaching orcs. It gave a warning bark, and took cover under the nearby spreading roots of an ancient beech that raised its limbs over the forest track, watching to the east where the Moon was rising over the shadows of the Ephel Duath. Alarmed, the birds rose from their resting places, calling out their fear and displeasure at being driven from their chosen copse, heading north and west, closer to the river. The fox watched the way along which the evil creatures were likely to come, its presence but a frail protection for its mate and kits somewhat further from the two-foots' way, unwilling to retreat too much further.

A rook rose cawing from the undergrowth, and foraging conies dove into whatever holes they were closest to. A frenzied crashing amongst the brush near the beech marked the flight of a young wild pig as it caught the scent of the oncoming intruders and panicked.

Then, briefly, all went silent again. There was a shrill cry of a jay, and a momentary movement in the brambles adjoining the road, and then-

_Tramp, tramp! Tramp, tramp! **Tramp, tramp! Tramp, tramp! Crack, crackle, snap!**_

The orcs pushed past overhanging shrubbery from a narrow track, growling and complaining as they made their way onto the broader path. A tracker came first, his nostrils quivering as he tried to sort out the scents about them. He was followed by eight smaller orcs in mismatched armor, two carrying small bows and the rest armed with crude scimitars. Behind them were sixteen uruks, three of them archers and the rest carrying both pikes and blades. A uruk thumped one of the shorter fighters with the shaft of his pike, and all in the party went into a grudging, wary silence. They turned southward and began moving forward, slowly, watchfully. There was a grunted command given in the Black Speech, and a general wordless acknowledgment as the troop gained confidence and began moving rapidly southward.

Another alarm call from the jay, and the orcs stopped in their tracks, looking about to see the bird fly.

But what flew in that moment was aimed at them, not taking wing away from them! Seven orcs looked down in shock to examine the arrows that had appeared to sprout from their bodies, and five of them toppled in the next instant. There was the growl of a badger, and another flight of arrows took them, causing five more to fall at least to their knees, if not flat upon their faces! Only one of the orc archers was still standing, but stood confused, unsure as to where to aim his arrows. One of the pikemen hurled his weapon in the general direction of the source of the arrow that had taken the orc who'd been marching next to him, but it bounced harmlessly off the trunk of one of the elms.

They heard a shrill whistle from the west side of the path, and all turned that direction, their scimitars raised. But then armed Men leapt down from behind the rocks on the eastward slopes, taking them from the rear. The fight was swift and fierce, and in moments all of the orcs were lying upon the ground, the Men stepping back and wiping their blades clean as they surveyed the results of their ambush. As a shorter Man turned his masked face toward one of his fellows in unspoken question, however, one of the apparently stricken orcs jumped up unexpectedly and sought to take him with as much surprise as had been given its own squadron. But it had not taken two steps before it fell, an arrow in its throat, its intended target turning toward it with some surprise, his sword already lifted defensively.

The hidden archers stepped out of their hiding places, and stood in the darkening roadway. At a gesture from their captain each Man stooped over one of the prone orcs and delivered a blow from which none would be able to rise, then moved on to strike another, pulling their arrows out of their victims as they could.

Ten Men gathered at the last about their captain, who released his mask to smile at the rest in approval. He pointed southwesterly, and all nodded their understanding before melting soundlessly into the bushes and trees that bordered the pathway.

Soon all was quiet and still once more. At last the fox stirred, slipping from its own hiding place down to investigate one of the bodies lying on the pathway. It sniffed at the corpse, then recoiled at the reek of the spilled black blood. At last satisfied that the orcs were indeed dead, it lifted its leg defiantly and marked the closest one with an indicator that this land was both occupied and defended. Satisfied that no other fox would trespass on its claim, it returned to its former place at the mouth to its den, relieved to hear the gentle sound of nursing kits within and the panting of its vixen. No further danger threatened its family this night!


End file.
